__.    1 8;jg 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


GIFT  OF 


WILLIAM  OILMAN  THOMPSON. 


POEMS. 


BY  THE   AUTHOR    OF   "A    LIFE   FOR    A    LIFE,' 
"JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN,"   &c. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR   AND    FIELDS 

M  DCCC  LX.    • 


AUTHOR  S     EDITION. 


RIVERSIDE,    CAMBRIDGE  : 

STEREOTYPED      AND     PRINTED     11  V 
H.    0.    HOl'OHTON   AND    COMPANY. 


^ 


TO 


HENRY     BLACKETT,   ESQ 


A   TOKEN   OF   PESPECT   AND   ESTEEM 


FROM   AUTHOR   TO    PUBLISHER. 


PKEFACE. 


MANY  of  these  Poems,  extending  over  a  period 
of  ten  years,  have  appeared  anonymously  in 
"  Chambers'  Journal  "  and  elsewhere.  The  fre 
quent  reprinting  of  them,  here  and  in  America, 
has  induced  the  author  to  collect,  select,  revise, 
and  claim — her  errant  children. 

Whether  they  were  worth  collecting,  and  are 
really  "  Poems,"  public  opinion  must  decide. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PHILIP    MY    KING 13 

THOUGHTS    IN    A    WHEAT-FIELD 15 

IMMUTABLE 18 

FOUR    YEARS 21 

THE    DEAD   CZAR 23 

THE    WIND    AT    NIGHT 26 

A    FABLE 29 

LABOUR    IS     PRAYER 31 

A     SILLY   SONG 33 

IN     MEMORIAM 35 

AN     HONKST     VALENTINE ; 37 

LOOKING    DEATH    IN    THE    FACE 41 

BY    THE    ALMA     RIVER 46 

ROTHESAY    BAY 49 

LIVING:    AFTER    A    DEATH 51 

IN     OUR      BOAT 54 

THE    RIVER     SHORE 55 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A    FLOWER    OF    A    DAY 56 

THE    NIGHT    BEFORE    THE    MOWING 59 

PASSION     PAST 6  1 

OCTOBER 63 

MOON-STRUCK  :  A  FANTASY 65 

A  STREAM'S   SINGING 70 

A  REJECTED  LOVER 72 

A  LIVING  PICTURE 74 

LEONORA 77 

PLIGHTED 81 

MORTALITY 83 

LIFE  RETURNING  :  AFTER  WAR-TIME 85 

MY  FRIEND 87 

A  VALENTINE 90 

GRACE  OF  CLYDESIDE 93 

TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  WOMAN 95 

MARY'S  WEDDING \ 98 

BETWEEN   TWO  WORLDS 101 

COUSIN  ROBERT 104 

AT     LAST 108 

THE   AURORA    ON    THE     CLYDE 110 

AN    AURORA    BOREALIS.      ROSLIN    CASTLE 113 

AT     THE    LINN-SIDE.       ROSLIN 115 

A    HYMN    FOR    CHRISTMAS    MORNING 117 

A    PSALM     FOR     NEW    YEAR'S     EVE 119 

FAITHFUL     IN    VANITY-FAIR 121 

HER    LIKENESS 1  25 

ONLY   A    DREAM 1  2G 

TO     MY    GODCHILD     ALICE 129 


CONTENTS. 


SONNETS. 

PAGE 

RESIGNING 131 

SAINT    ELIZABETH    OF    BOHEMIA.       I.    AND    II. 132 

A    MARRIAGE-TABLE 134 

MICHAEL     THE     ARCHANGEL.       I.    AND    II. 135 

BEATRICE    TO    DANTE     137 

DANTE    TO    BEATRICE 138 

A     QUESTION.       I.    AND     II. 139 

ANGEL     FACES.       I.    AND    II. 141 

SUNDAY    MORNING    BELLS 143 

CCEUR    DE    LION.      I.    AND    II. 144 

GUNS     OF    PEACE 146 

DAVID'S    CHILD 147 

A  WORD  IN   SEASON 148 

THE  PATH  ^THROUGH    THE    SNOW • 149 

THE    PATH    THROUGH    THE    CORN 151 

THE    GOOD    OF    IT.      A     CYNIC'S     SONG 153 

MINE 155 

A    GHOST    AT    THE     DANCING 157 

MY     CHRISTIAN     NAME 160 

A    DEAD    BABY 162 

FOR    MUSIC 164 

THE    CANARY    IN     HIS     CAGE 166 

CONSTANCY    IN    INCONSTANCY    168 

BURIED  TO-DAY 171 

THE    MILL 173 

NORTH    WIND 1 75 


x  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

NOW    AND     AFTERWARDS 177 

A    SKETCH 179 

THE  UNKNOWN    COUNTRY •  •  •  181 

A    CHILD'S    SMILE 183 

VIOLETS 185 

KDENLAND 187 

THE    HOUSE     OF    CLAY 188 

WINTER      MOONLIGHT 1 90 

THE    PLANTING 192 

SITTING    ON    THE    SHORE 195 

EUDOXIA  :     FIRST    PICTURE 197 

EUDOXIA  :    SECOND    PICTURE 200 

EUDOXIA  :    THIRD    PICTURE 202 

BENEDETTA    MINELLI  :    THE    NOVICE 204 

BENEDETTA    MINELLI:     THE    SISTER    OF    MERCY 207 

A    DREAM    OF     DEATH 210 

A    DREAM     OF    RESURRECTION 212 

ON    THE    CLIFF-TOP 215 

AN    EVENING    GUEST 217 

AFTER  SUNSET 219 

THE    GARDEN-CHAIR  :     TWO     PORTRAITS 221 

AN     OLD     IDEA 223 

PARABLES 224 

LETTICE 226 

A    SPIRIT     PRESENT 228 

A     WINTER     WALK 230 

WILL     SAIL     TO-MORROW 232 

AT     EVEN-TIDE 234 

A    DEAD    SEA-GULL  :     NEAR     LIVERPOOL 236 


CONTENTS.  XI 

PAGE 

LOOKING     EAST.       IN    JANUARY,     1858 238 

OVER    THE     HILLS    AND    FAR     AWAY 241 

TOO    LATE 243 

LOST  IN  THE  MIST 245 

SEMPER  FIDELIS 250 

ONE  SUMMER  MORNING 253 

MY  LOVE  ANNIE •„ 254 

SUMMER    GONE 256 

THE  VOICE  CALLING 259 

THE   WREN'S   NEST 262 

A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 264 

THE  MOTHER'S  VISITS.     FROM  THE  FRENCH 266 

A  GERMAN  STUDENT'S   FUNERAL  HYMX 267 

WESTWARD,  HO  ! 269 


POEMS 


PHILIP  MY  KING. 

"  Who  bears  upon  his  baby  brow  the  round 
And  top  of  sovereignty." 

LOOK  at  me  with  thy  large  brown  eyes, 

Philip  my  king, 

Round  whom  the  enshadowing  purple  lies 
Of  babyhood's  royal  dignities  : 
Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  hand 
With  love's  invisible  sceptre  laden ; 
I  am  thine  Esther  to  command 
Till  thou  shalt  find  a  queen-handmaiden, 

Philip  my  king. 

0  the  day  when  thou  goest  a  wooing. 

Philip  my  king  \ 

When  those  beautiful  lips  'gin  suing, 
And  some  gentle  heart's  bars  undoing 
Thou  dost  enter,  love-crown'd,  and  there 
Sittest  love-glorified.     Rule  kindly, 


4  PHILIP   MY   KING. 

Tenderly,  over  thy  kingdom  fair, 
For  we  that  love,  ah  !  we  love  so  blindly, 
Philip  my  king. 

Up  from  thy  sweet  mouth  —  up  to  thy  brow, 

Philip  my  king  ! 

The  spirit  that  there  lies  sleeping  now 
May  rise  like  a  giant  and  make  men  bow 
As  to  one  heaven-chosen  amongst  his  peers: 
My  Saul,  than  thy  brethren  taller  and  fairer 
Let  me  behold  thee  in  future  years ;  — 
Yet  thy  head  needeth  a  circlet  rarer, 

Philip  my  king. 

—  A  wreath  not  of  gold,  but  palm.     One  day, 

Philip  my  king, 

Thou  too  must  tread,  as  we  trod,  a  way 
Thorny  and  cruel  and  cold  and  gray : 
Rebels  within  thee  and  foes  without, 
Will  snatch  at  thy  crown.     But  march  on,  glorious, 
Martyr,  yet  monarch :  till  angels  shout 
As  thou  sit'st  at  the  feet  of  God  victorious, 

"  Philip  the  king ! '? 


THOUGHTS   IN   A   WHEAT-FIELD. 

The  harvest  is  the  end  of  the  world,  and  the  reapers  are  the  angels.1' 

IN  his  wide  fields  walks  the  Master, 
In  his  fair  fields,  ripe  for  harvest, 
Where  the  evening  sun  shines  slant-wise 
On  the  rich  ears  heavy  bending; 

Saith  the  Master :  "  It  is  time." 
Though  no  leaf  shows  brown  decadence, 
And  September's  nightly  frost-bite 
Only  reddens  the  horizon, 
"  It  is  full  time,"  saith  the  Master, 

The  wise  Master,  "  It  is  time." 

Lo,  he  looks.     That  look  compelling 
Brings  his  labourers  to  the  harvest  ; 
Quick  they  gather,  as  in  autumn 
Passage- birds  in  cloudy  eddies 

Drop  upon  the  sea-side  fields"; 
White  wings  have  they,  and  white  raiment, 
White  feet  shod  with  swift  obedience, 
Each  lays  down  his  golden  palm-branch, 


16  THOUGHTS   IN   A   WHEAT-FIELD. 

And  uprears  his  sickle  shining, 

"  Speak,  O  Master  —  is  it  time  ?  " 

O'er  the  field  the  servants  'hasten, 
Where  the  full-stored  ears  droop  downwards, 
Humble  with  their  weight  of  harvest : 
Where  the  empty  ears  wave  upward. 

And  the  gay  tares  flaunt  in  rows  : 
But  the  sickles,  the  sharp  sickles, 
Flash  new  dawn  at  their  appearing, 
Songs  are  heard  in  earth  and  heaven, 
For  the  reapers  are  the  angels, 

And  it  is  the  harvest  time. 

O  Great  Master,  are  thy  footsteps 
Even  now  upon  the  mountains  ? 
Art  thou  walking  in  thy  wheat-field  ? 
Are  the  snowy-winged  reapers 

Gathering  in  the  silent  air  ? 
Are  thy  signs  abroad,  the  glowing 
Of  the  distant  sky,  blood-redden'd  — 
And  the  near  fields  trodden,  blighted, 
Choked  by  gaudy  tares  triumphant,  — 

Sure,  it  must  be  harvest  time? 

Who  shall  know  the  Master's  coming? 
Whether  it  be  at  dawn  or  sunset, 


THOUGHTS   IN  A   WHEAT-FIELD.  17 

When  night  dews  weigh  down  the  wheat-ears, 
Or  while  noon  rides  high  in  heaven, 

Sleeping  lies  the  yellow  field  ? 
Only,  may  thy  voice,  Good  Master, 
Peal  above  the  reapers'  chorus, 
And  dull  sound  of  sheaves  slow  falling,  — 
"  Gather  all  into  My  garner, 

For  it  is  My  harvest  time." 


IMMUTABLE. 

i:  With  whom  is  no  variableness,  neither  shadow  of  turning." 

AUTUMN  to  winter  —  winter  into  spring  — 

Spring  into  summer  —  summer  into  fall  — 

So  rolls  the  changing  year,  and  so  we  change  ; 

Motion  so  swift,  we  know  not  that  we  move. 

Till  at  the  gate  of  some  memorial  hour 

We  pause  —  look  in  its  sepulchre  to  find 

The  cast-off  shape  that  years  since  we  called  "  I "  — 

And  start,  amazed.     Yet  on  !  we  may  not  stay 

To  weep  or  laugh.     All  which  is  past,  is  past : 

Even  while  we  gaze  the  simulated  form 

Drops  into  dust,  like  many-centuried  corpse 

At  opening  of  a  tomb. 

Alack,  this  world 
Is    full     of    change,    change,     change  —  nothing    but 

change ! 

Is  there  not  one  straw  in  life's  whirling  flood 
To  hold  by,  as  the  torrent  sweeps  us  down, 
Us,  scattered  leaves ;  eddied  and  broken ;  torn 
Roughly  asunder  ;  or  in  smooth  mid-stream 


IMMUTABLE.  19 

Divided  each  from  other  without  pain; 

Collected  in  what  looks  like  union, 

Yet  is  but  stagnant  chance  —  stopping  to  rot 

By  the  same  pebble  till  the  tide  shall  turn  ; 

Then  on,  to  find  no  shelter  and  no  rest, 

For  ever  rootless  and  for  ever  lone. 

O   God,  we  are  but  leaves  upon  Thj  stream, 

Clouds  on  Thy  sky.     We  do  but  move  across 

The  silent  breast  of  Thine  infinitude 

Which  bears  us  all.     We  pour  out  day  by  day 

Our  long,  brief  moan  of  mutability 

To  Thine  immutable  —  and  cease. 

Yet  still 

Our  change  yearns  after  Thine  unchangedness : 
Our  mortal  craves  Thine  immortality  ; 
Our  manifold  and  multiform  and  weak 
Imperfectness,  requires  the  perfect  ONE. 
For  Thou  art  ONE,  and  we  are  all  of  Thee  ; 
Dropped  from  Thy  bosom,  as  Thy  sky  drops  down 
Its  morning  dews,  which  glitter  for  a  space, 
Uncertain  whence  they  fell,  or  whither  tend, 
Till  the  great  Sun  arising  on  his  fields 
Upcalls  them  all,  and  they  rejoicing  go. 

So,  with  like  joy,  O  Light  Eterne,  we  spring 
Thee-ward,  and  leave  the  pleasant  fields  of  earth, 


20  IMMUTABLE. 

Forgetting  equally  its  blossom'd  green 
And  its  dry  dusty  paths  which  drank  us  up 
Remorseless  —  we,  poor  humble  drops  of  dew, 
That  only  wish'd  to  freshen  a  flower's  breast, 
And  be  exhaled  to  heaven. 

O  Thou  supreme 
All-satisfying  and  immutable  One, 
It  is  enough  to  be  absorbed  in  Thee 
And  vanish  —  though  't  were  only  to  a  voice 
That  through  all  ages  with  perpetual  joy 
Goes  evermore  loud  crying,  "  God  !  God  !  God  !  " 


FOUR  YEARS. 

AT  the  midsummer,  when  the  hay  was  down. 
Said  I,  mournfully  —  My  life  is  at  its  prime, 
Yet  bare  lie  my  meadows,  shorn  before  the  time, 
In    my   scorch'd    woodlands    the    leaves    are    turning 

brown. 
It  is  the  hot  midsummer,  and  the  hay  is  down. 

At  the  midsummer,  when  the  hay  was  down, 
Stood  she  by  the  streamlet,  young  and  very  fair, 
With  the  first  white  bindweed  twisted  in  her  hair  — 
Hair    that    drooped    like    birch-boughs,  —  all   in    her 

simple  gown. 
For  it  was  midsummer,  —  and  the  hay  was  down. 

At  the  midsummer,  when  the  hay  was  down, 
Crept  she,  a  willing  bride,  close  into  my  breast : 
Low    piled    the    thunder   clouds  had    drifted    to    the 
west  — 


22  FOUR   YEARS. 

Red-eyed  out   glared   the   sun,   like  knight    from   lea- 

guered  town, 
That    eve    in    high    midsummer,  when    the    hay    was 

down. 

It  is  midsummer  —  all  the  hay  is  down  ; 

Close  to  her  bosom  press  I  dying  eyes, 

Praying,  "  God  shield  thee  till  we  meet  in  Para 
dise  ! " 

Bless  her  in  Love's  name  who  was  my  brief  life's 
crown,  — 

And  I  go  at  midsummer,  when  the  hay  is  down. 


THE  DEAD   CZAR. 

LAY  him  beneath  his  snows, 
The  great  Norse  giant  who  in  these  last  days 
Troubled  the  nations.     Gather  decently 
The  imperial  robes  about  him.     'T  is  but  man  — 
This  demi-god.     Or  rather  it  was  man, 
And  is  —  a  little  dust,  that  will  corrupt 
As  fast  as  any  nameless  dust  which  sleeps 
'Neath  Alma's  grass  or  Balaklava's  vines. 

No  vineyard  grave  for  him.     No  quiet  tomb 

By  river  margin,  where  across  the  seas 

Children's  fond  thoughts  and  women's  memories  come 

Like  angels,  to  sit  by  the  sepulchre, 

Saying :  "  All  these  were  men  who  knew  to  count, 

Front-faced,  the  cost  of  honour,  nor  did  shrink 

From  its  full  payment :    coming  here  to  die, 

They  died  —  like  men." 

But  this  man  ?     Ah  !  for  him 
Funereal  state,  and  ceremonial  grand, 


24  THE   DEAD   CZAK. 

The  stone-engraved  sarcophagus,  and  then 
Oblivion. 

Nay,  oblivion  were  as  bliss 

To  that  fierce  howl  which  rolls  from  land  to  land 
Exulting  —  "  Art  thou  fallen,  Lucifer, 
Son  of  the  morning  ?  "  or  condemning  —  "  Thus 
Perish  the  wicked  !  "  or  blaspheming  —  "  Here 
Lies  our  Belshazzar,  our  Sennacherib, 
Our  Pharaoh  —  he  whose  heart  God  hardened, 
So  that  he  would  not  let  the  people  go." 

Self-glorifying  sinners  !     Why,  this  man 

Was  but  like  other  men:  —  you,  Levite  small, 

Who  shut  your  saintly  ears,  and  prate  of  hell 

And  heretics,  because  outside  church-doors, 

Tour  church-doors,  congregations  poor  and  small 

Praise  Heaven  in  their  own  way  ;  —  You,  autocrat 

Of  all  the  hamlets,  who  add  field  to  field 

And  house  to  house,  whose  slavish  children  cower 

Before  your  tyrant  footstep  ;  —  you,  foul-tongued 

Fanatic  or  ambitious  egotist, 

Who  thinks  God  stoops  from  His  high  majesty 

To  lay  His  finger  on  your  puny  head, 

And  crown  it  —  that  you  henceforth  may  parade 

Your  maggotship  throughout  the  wondering  world  — 

"  I  am  the  Lord's  anointed !  " 


THE   DEAD   CZAR.  25 

Fools  and  blind ! 

This  Czar,  this  emperor,  this  disthroned  corpse, 
Lying  so  straightly  in  an  icy  calm 
Grander  than  sovereignty,  was  but  as  ye  — 
No  better  and  no  worse  ;  —  Heaven  mend  us  all  ! 

Carry  him  forth  and  bury  him.     Death's  peace 
Rest  on  h^  memory  !     Mercy  by  his  bier 
Sits  silent,  or  says  only  these  few  words,  — 
"  Let  him  who  is  without  sin  'mongst  ye  all 
Cast  the  first  stone." 


THE   WIND   AT  NIGHT. 

O  SUDDEN  blast,  that  through  this  silence  black 

Sweeps  past  my  windows, 
Coming  and  going  with  invisible  track 

As  death  or  sin  does  — 

Why  scare  me,  lying  sick,  and,  save  thine  own, 

Hearing  no  voices  ? 
Why  mingle  with  a  helpless  human  moan 

Thy  mad  rejoices  ? 

Why  not  come  gently,  as  good  angels  come 

To  souls  departing, 
Floating  among  the  shadows  of  the  room 

With  eyes  light-darting, 

Bringing  faint  airs  of  balm  that  seem  to  rouse 

Thoughts  of  a  Far  Land, 
Then  binding  softly  upon  weary  brows 

Death's  poppy-garland  ? 


THE  WIND  AT   NIGHT.  27 

O    fearful  blast,  I  shudder  at  thy  sound, 

Like  heathen  mortal 
Who  saw  the  Three  that  mark  life's  doomed  bound 

Sit  at  his  portal. 

Thou  might'st  be  laden  with  sad,  shrieking  souls, 

Carried  unwilling 

From  their  known  earth  to  the  unknown  stream 
that  rolls 

All  anguish  stilling. 

Fierce  wind,  will  the  Death-angel  come  like  thee, 

Soon,  soon  to  bear  me 
—  Whither  ?  what  mysteries  may  unfold  to  me, 

What  terrors  scare  me  ? 

Shall  I  go  wand'ring  on  through  empty  space 

As  on  earth,  lonely  ? 
Or  seek  through  myriad  spirit-ranks  one  face, 

And  miss  that  only  ? 

Shall  I  not  then  drop  down  from  sphere  to  sphere 

Palsied  and  aimless? 
Or  will  my  being  change  so,  that  both  fear 

And  grief  die  nameless? 

Rather  I  pray  Him  who  Himself  is  Love, 
Out  of  whose  essence 


28  THE   WIND   AT  NIGHT. 

We  all  do  spring,  and  towards  Him  tending,  move 
Back  to  His  presence, 

That  even  His  brightness  may  not  quite  efface 

The  soul's  earth-features, 
That  the  dear  human  likeness  each  may  trace 

Glorified  creatures  ; 

That  we  may  not  cease  loving,  only  taught 

Holier  desiring ; 

More    faith,    more    patience;    with    more    wisdom 
fraught, 

Higher  aspiring. 

That  we  may  do  all  work  we  left  undone 

Here  —  though  unmeetness  ; 
From  height  to  height  celestial  passing  on 

Towards  full  completeness. 

Then,  strong  Azrael,  be  thy  supreme  call 

Soft  as  spring-breezes,    ' 
Or  like  this  blast,  whose  loud  fiend-festival 

My  heart's  blood  freezes, 

I  will  not  fear  thee.     If  thou  safely  keep 

My  soul,  God's  giving, 
And  my  soul's  soul,  I,  wakening  from   death-sleep, 

Shall  first  know  living. 


A  FABLE. 

SILENT  and  sunny  was  the  way 

Where  Youth  and  I  danced  on  together 
So  winding  and  embowered  o'er, 
We  could  not  see  one  rood  before. 
Nevertheless  all  merrily 
We  bounded  onward,  Youth  and  I, 

Leashed  closely  in  a  silken  tether  : 

(Well-a-day,  well-a-day !) 
Ah  Youth,  ah  Youth,  but  I  would  fain 
See  thy  sweet  foolish  face  again  ! 

It  came  to  pass,  one  morn  of  May, 
All  in  a  swoon  of  golden  weather, 

That  I  through  green  leaves  fluttering 

Saw  Joy  uprise  on  Psyche  wing: 

Eagerly,  too  eagerly 

We  followed  after — Youth  and  I  — 

Till  suddenly  he  slipped  the  tether  : 
(Well-a-day,  well-a-day  !) 


30  A   FABLE. 

"  Where  art  thou,  Youth  ?  "    I  cried.     In  vain  ; 
He  never  more  came  back  again. 

Yet  onward  through  the  devious  way 

In  rain  or  shine,  I  recked  not  whether, 

Like  many  another  maddened  boy 

I  tracked  my  Psyche-winged  Joy ; 

Till,  curving  round  the  bowery  lane, 

Lo  —  in  the  pathway  stood  pale  Pain, 
And  we  met  face  to  face  together  : 
(Well-a-day,  well-a-day  !) 

"  Whence  comest  thou  ?  "  —  and  I  writhed  in  vain 

"  Unloose  thy  cruel  grasp,  O  Pain  !  " 

But  he  would  not.     Since,  day  by  day 

He  has  ta'en  up  Youth's  silken  tether 

And  changed  it  into  iron  bands. 

So  through  rich  vales  and  barren  lands 

Solemnly,  all  solemnly 

March  we  united,  he  and  I; 

And  we  have  grown  such  friends  together 
(Well-a-day,  well-a-day  !) 

I  and  this  my  brother  Pain, 

I  think  we  '11  never  part  again. 


LABOUR  IS  PRAYER. 

LABORARE  est  orare  : 

We,  black-visaged  sons  of  toil, 
From  the  coal-mine  and  the  anvil 

And  the  delving  of  the  soil,  — 
From  the  loom,  the  wharf,  the  warehouse, 

And  the  ever  whirling  mill, 
Out  of  grim  and  hungry  silence 

Raise  a  weak  voice  small  and  shrill ;  — 
Laborare  est  orare: 

Man,  dost  hear  us  ?     God,  He  will. 

We  who  just  can  keep  from  starving 

Sickly  wives  —  not  always  mild  : 
Trying  not  to  curse  Heaven's  bounty 

When  it  sends  another  child,  — 
We  who,  worn-out,  doze  on  Sundays 

O'er  the  Book  we  strive  to  read, 
Cannot  understand  the  parson 

Or  the  catechism  and  creed. 


32  LABOUR   IS   PRAYER. 

Laborare  est  orare  :  — 

Then,  good  sooth,   we  pray  indeed. 

We,  poor  women,  feeble-natured, 

Large  of  heart,  in  wisdom  small, 
Who  the  world's  incessant  battle 

Cannot  understand  at  all, 
All  the  mysteries  of  the  churches, 

All  the  troubles  of  the  state,  — 
Whom  child-smiles  teach   "  God  is  loving," 

And  child-coffins,   "  God  is  great :  " 
Laborare  est  orare  :  — 

We  too  at  His  footstool  wait. 

Laborare  est  orare ; 

Hear  it,  ye  of  spirit  poor, 
Who  sit  crouching  at  the  threshold 

While  your  brethren  force  the  door  ; 
Ye  whose  ignorance  stands  wringing 

Rough  hands,  seam'd  with  toil,  nor  dares 
Lift  so  much  as  eyes  to  heaven  — 

Lo!    all  life  this  truth  declares, 
Laborare  est  orare  ; 

And  the  whole  earth  rings  with  prayers. 


A  SILLY  SONG. 

"O  HEART,  my  heart!"   she  said,  and  heard 
His  mate  the  blackbird  calling, 

While  through  the  sheen  of  the  garden  green 
May  rain  was  softly  falling  — 
Aye   softly,  softly  falling. 

The  butter-cups  across  the  field 

Made  sunshine  rifts  of  splendour: 

The  round  snow-bud  of  the  thorn  in  the  wood 
Peep'd  through  its  leafage  tender, 
As  the  rain  came  softly  falling. 

"  O  heart,  my  heart ! "  she  said  and  smiled, 
"  There  's  not  a  tree  of  the  valley, 

Or  a  leaf  I  wis  which  the  rain's  soft  kiss 
Freshens  in  yonder  alley, 
Where  the  drops  keep  ever  falling, — 


34  A  SILLY  SONG. 

"  There  's  not  a  foolish  flower  i'  the  grass, 
Or  bird  through  the  woodland  calling, 

So  glad  again  of  the  coming  of  rain 
As  I  of  these  tears  now  falling  — 
These  happy  tears  down  falling." 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

Obiit  1854. 

HEAVEN  rest  thee ! 
We  shall  go  about  to-day 
In  our  festal  garlands  gay; 
Whatsoever  robes  we  wear 
Not  a  trace  of  black  be  there. 
Well,  what  matters?  none  is  seen 
On  thy  daisy  covering   green, 
Or  thy  pure  white  pillow,  hid 
Underneath  a  coffin  lid. 
Heaven  rest  thee ! 

Heaven  take  thee !  — 
Aye,  heaven  only.     Sleeps  beneath 
One  who  died  a  virgin  death : 
Died  so  slowly,  day  by  day, 
That  it  scarcely  seemed  decay, 
Till  this  lonely  churchyard  kind 
Opened  —  and  we  left  behind 


36  IN  MEMORIAM. 

Nothing  but  a  little  dust ;  — 
Heaven  is  pitiful  and  just : 
Heaven  take  thee  ! 

Heaven  keep  thee : 
Nevermore  above  the  ground 
Be  one  relic  of  thee  found  : 
Lay  the  turf  so  smooth,  we  crave, 
None  would  guess  it  was  a  grave. 
Save  for  grass  that  greener  grows, 
Or  for  wind  that  gentlier  blows 
All  the  earth  o'er,  from  this  spot 
Where  thou  wert  —  and  thou  art  not. 
Heaven  keep  thee ! 


AN   HONEST  VALENTINE. 
Keturned  from  the  Dead-letter  Office. 

THANK  ye  for  your  kindness, 

Lady  fair  and  wise, 
Though  love  's  famed  for  blindness, 

Lovers  —  hem  !  for  lies. 
Courtship  's  mighty  pretty, 

Wedlock  a  sweet  sight ;  — 
Should  I  (from  the  city, 

A  plain  man,  Miss  — )  write, 
Ere  we  spouse-and-wive  it, 

Just  one  honest  line, 
Could  you  e'er  forgive  it, 

Pretty  Valentine? 

Honey-moon  quite  over, 

If  I  less  should  scan 
You  with  eye  of  lover 

Than  of  mortal  man  ? 
Seeing  my  fair  charmer 

Curl  hair  spire  on  spire, 


AN  HONEST   VALENTINE. 

All  in  paper  armour, 
By  the  parlour  fire ; 

Gown  that  wants  a  stitch  in 
Hid  by  apron  fine, 

Scolding  in  her  kitchen,  — 
O  fie,  Valentine  ! 

Should  I  come  home  surly 

Vex'd  with  fortune's  frown, 
Find  a  hurly  burly, 

House  turn'd  upside  down, 
Servants  all  a-snarl,  or 

Cleaning  steps  or  stair : 
Breakfast  still  in  parlour, 

Dinner  —  anywhere  : 
Shall  I  to  cold  bacon 

Meekly  fall  and  dine? 
No  —  or  I  'm  mistaken 

Much,  my  Valentine. 

What  if  we  should  quarrel  ? 

—  Bless  you,  all  folks  do :  - 
Will  you  take  the  war  ill 

Yet  half  like  it  too  ? 
When  I  storm  and  jangle, 

Obstinate,  absurd, 
Will  you  sit  and  wrangle 


AN  HONEST   VALENTINE.  39 

Just  for  the  last  word,  — 
Or,  while  poor  Love  crying 

Upon  tip-toe  stands, 
Ready  plumed  for  flying  — 

Will  you  smile,  shake  hands, 
And  the  truth  beholding, 

With  a  kiss  divine 
Stop  my  rough  mouth's  scolding  ?  — 

Bless  you,  Valentine ! 

If,  should  times  grow  harder, 

We  have  lack  of  pelf, 
Little  in  the  larder, 

Less  upon  the  shelf; 
Will  you,  never  tearful, 

Make  your  old  gowns  do, 
Mend  my  stockings,  cheerful, 

And  pay  visits  few  ? 
Crave  nor  gift  nor  donor, 

Old  days  ne'er  regret, 
Seek  no  friend  save  Honour, 

Dread  no  foe  but  Debt ; 
Meet  ill-fortune  steady, 

Hand  to  hand  with  mine, 
Like  a  gallant  lady  — 

Will  you,  Valentine? 


40  AN  HONEST   VALENTINE. 

Then,  whatever  weather 

Come  —  or  shine,  or  shade, 
We  '11  set  out  together, 

Not  a  whit  afraid. 
Age  is  ne'er  alarming  — 

I  shall  find,  I  ween, 
You  at  sixty  charming 

As  at  sweet  sixteen  : 
Let  's  pray,  nothing  loath,  dear, 

That  our  funeral  may 
Make  one  date  serve  both,  dear, 

As  our  marriage  day. 
Then,  come  joy  or  sorrow, 

Thou  art  mine  —  I  thine. 
So  we  '11  wed  to-morrow, 

Dearest  Valentine. 


LOOKING  DEATH  IN   THE   FACE. 

AY,  in  thy  face,  old  fellow  !   Now  's  the  time. 
The  Black  Sea  wind  flaps  my  tent-roof,  nor  wakes 
These  lads  of  mine,  who  take  of  sleep  their  fill, 
As  if  they  thought  they  'd  never  sleep  again, 
Instead  of  — 

Pitiless  Crimean  blast, 

How  many  a  howling  lullaby  thou  'It  raise 
To-morrow  night,  all  nights  till  the  world's  end, 
Over  some  sleepers  here  ! 

Some  ?  —  who  ?     Dumb  Fate 
Whispers  in  no  man's  ear  his  coming  doom ; 
Each  thinks  — "not  I  —  not  I." 

But  thou,  grim  Death, 

I  hear  thee  on  the  night-wind  flying  abroad, 
I  feel  thee  here,  squatted  at  our  tent-door, 
Invisible  and  incommunicable, 
Pointing : 

"  Hurrah ! " 

Why  yell  so  in  your  sleep, 


42  LOOKING  DEATH  IN  THE   FACE. 

Comrade  ?     Did  you  see  aught  ? 

Well  —  let  him  dream  : 

Who  knows,  to-morrow  such  a  shout  as  this 
He  '11  die  with.     A  brave  lad,  and  very  like 
His  sister.         *         *         *         * 

So  !  just  two  hours  have  I  lain 
Freezing.      That    pale   white    star,    which   came   and 

peered 

Through  the  tent-opening,  has  passed  on,  to  smile 
Elsewhere,  or  lost  herself  i'  the  dark  —  God  knows. 
Two  hours  nearer  to  dawn.     The  very  hour  — 
The  very  hour  and  day,  a  year  ago, 
When  we  light-hearted  and  light-footed  fools 
Went  jingling  idle  swords  in  waltz  and  reel, 
And  smiling  in  fair  faces.     How  they  'd  start 
Those  dainty  red  and  white  soft  faces  kind, 
If  they  could  but  behold  my  visage  now, 
Or  his — or  his — or  some  poor 'faces  cold 
We  cover'd  up  with  earth  last  noon. 

—  There  sits 

The  laidly  Thing  I  felt  on  our  tent-door 
Two  hours  back.     It  has  sat  and  never  stirred 
I  cannot  challenge  it  —  or  shoot  it  down, 
Or  grapple  with  it,  as  with  that  young  Russ 
Whom  I  killed  yesterday.     (What  eyes  he  had !  — 
Great  limpid  eyes,  and  curling  dark-red  hair  — 
A  woman's  picture  hidden  in  his  breast  — 


LOOKING  DEATH  IN  THE  FACE.        43 

I  never  liked  this  fighting  hand  to  hand.) 
No  —  it  will  not  be  met  like  flesh  and  blood, 
This  shapeless,  voiceless,  immaterial  Thing, 
Yet  I  will  meet  it.     Here  I  sit  alone  — 
Show  me  thy  face,  0  Death! 

There,  there.     I  think 
I  did  not  tremble. 

I  am  a  young  man  ; 

Have  done  full  many  an  ill  deed,  left  undone 
Many  a  good  one  :   lived  unto  the  flesh, 
Not  to  the  spirit :   I  would  rather  live 
A  few  years  more,  and  try  if  things  might  change. 
Yet,  yet  I  hope  I  do  not  tremble,  Death ; 
And  that  thy  finger  pointed  at  my  heart 
But  calms  the  tumult  there. 

What  small  account 

The  All-living  seems  to  take  of  this  thin  flame 
Which  we  call  life.     He  sends  a  moment's  blast 
Out  of  war's  nostrils,  and  a  myriad 
Of  these  our  puny  tapers  are  blown  out 
For  ever.     Yet  we  shrink  not  —  we,  such  frail 
Poor  knaves,  whom  a  spent  ball  can  instant  strike 
Into  eternity  —  we  helpless  fools, 
Whom  a  serf's  clumsy  hand  and  clumsier  sword 
Smiting  —  shall  sudden  into  nothingness 


44   •     LOOKING  DEATH  IN  THE  FACE. 

Let  out  that  something  rare  which  could  conceive 
A  universe  and  its  God. 

Free,  open-eyed, 

We  rush  like  bridegrooms  to  Death's  grisly  arms: 
Surely  the  very  longing  for  that  clasp 
Proves  us  immortal.     Immortality 
Alone  could  teach  this  mortal  how  to  die. 
Perhaps,    war    is    but    Heaven's    great   ploughshare, 

driven 

Over  the  barren,  fallow  earthly  fields, 
Preparing  them  for  harvest;    rooting  up 
Grass,  weeds,  and  flowers,  which  necessary  fall, 
That  in  these  furrows  the  wise  Husbandman 
May  drop  celestial  seed. 

So  let  us  die ; 

Yield  up  our  little  lives,  as  the  flowers  do  ; 
Believing  He  '11  not  lose  one  single  soul  — 
One  germ  of  His  immortal.     Nought  of  His 
Or  Him  can  perish  ;   therefore  let  us  die. 

I  half  remember,  something  like  to  this 
She  says  in  her  dear  letters.     So  —  let 's  die. 
What,  dawn  ?    The  faint  hum  in  the  trenches  fails  — 
Is  that  a  bell  i'  the  mist?     My  faith,  they  go 
Early  to  matins  in  Sebastopol !  — 


LOOKING  DEATH  IN  THE  FACE.        45 

A  gun ! Lads  —  stand  to  your  arms ;   the  Russ  is 

here. 

Agnes. 

Kind  heaven,  I  have  look'd  Death  in  the  face, 

Help  me  to  die. 


BY  THE   ALMA  RIVER. 

WILLIE,  fold  your  little  hands; 

Let  it  drop,  that  "  soldier  "  toy  : 
Look  where  father's  picture  stands  — 

Father,  who  here  kiss'd  his  boy 
Not  two  months  since  —  father  kind, 
Who  this  night  may  —     Never  mind 
Mother's  sob,  my  Willie  dear, 
Call  aloud  that  He  may  hear 
Who  is  God  of  battles,  say, 
"  Oh,  keep  father  safe  this  day 

By  the  Alma  river." 

Ask  no  more,  child.     Never  heed 

Either  Russ,  or  Frank,  or  Turk, 

Right  of  nations  or  of  creed, 

Chance-poised  victory's  bloody  work 

Any  flag  i'  the  wind  may  roll 

On  thy  heights,  Sebastopol ; 

Willie,  all  to  you  and  me 

Is  that  spot,  where'er  it  be, 


BY  THE  ALMA  EIVER.  47 

Where  he  stands  —  no  other  word  ! 
Stands  —  God  sure  the  child's  prayer  heard  — 
By  the  Alma  river. 

Willie,  listen  to  the  bells 

Ringing  through  the  town  to-day. 
That 's  for  victory.     Ah,  no  knells 

For  the  many  swept  away  — 
Hundreds  —  thousands  !     Let  us  weep, 
We  who  need  not — just  to  keep 
Reason  steady  in  my  brain 
Till  the  morning  comes  again, 
Till  the  third  dread  morning  tell 
Who  they  were  that  fought  and  fell 

By  the  Alma  river. 

Come,  we  '11  lay  us  down,  my  child, 
Poor  the  bed  is,  poor  and  hard ; 

Yet  thy  father,  far  exiled, 

Sleeps  upon  tlie  open  sward, 

Dreaming  of  us  two  at  home: 

Or  beneath  the  starry  dome 

Digs  out  trenches  in  the  dark, 

Where  he  buries  —  Willie,  mark  — 

Where  he  buries  those  who  died 

Fighting  bravely  at  his  side 
By  the  Alma  river. 


48  BY   THE  ALMA  RIVER. 

Willie,  Willie,  go  to  sleep, 

God  will  keep  us,  O  my  boy ; 
He  will  make  the  dull  hours  creep 
Faster,  and  send  news  of  joy, 
When  I  need  not  shrink  to  meet 
Those  dread  placards  in  the  street, 
Which  for  weeks  will  ghastly  stare 
In  some  eyes —     Child,  say  thy  prayer 
Once  again  ;    a  different  one  : 
Say,  "  O  God,  Thy  will  be  done 
By  the  Alma  river." 


ROTHESAY  BAY. 

Fu'  yellow  lie  the  corn-rigs 

Far  doun  the  braid  hill-side  ; 
It  is  the  brawest  harst  field 

Alang  the  shores  o'  Clyde,  — 
And  I'm  a  puir  harst-lassie 

That  stan's  the  lee-lang  day 
Shearing  the  corn-rigs  of  Ardbeg 

Aboon  sweet  Rothesay  Bay. 

0  I  had  ance  a  true-love  — 

Now,  I  hae  nane  ava ; 
And  I  had  ance  three  brithers, 
.        But  I  hae  tint  them  a' 
My  father  and  my  mither 

Sleep  i'  the  mools  this  day. 

1  sit  my  lane  amang  the  rigs" 

Aboon  sweet  Rothesay  Bay. 

It  's  a  bonnie  bay  at  morning, 
And  bonnier  at  the  noon, 

4 


50  ROTHESAY   BAY. 

But  it  's  bonniest  when  the  sun  draps 
And  red  comes  up  the  moon  : 

When  the  mist  creeps  o'er  the  Cumbrays, 
And  Arran  peaks  are  grey, 

And  the  great  black  hills,  like  sleepin'  king?, 
Sit  grand  roun'  Rothesay  Bay, 

Then  a  bit  sigh  stirs  my  bosom, 

And  a  wee  tear  blin's  my  e'e  — 
And  I  think  o'  that  far  Countrie 

What  I  wad  like  to  be ! 
But  I  rise  content  i'  the  morning 

To  wark  while  wark  I  may 
I'  the  yellow  harst  field  of  Ardbeg 

Aboon  sweet  Rothesay  Bay. 


LIVING  : 
AFTER   A  DEATH. 
"  That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God.'' 
O    LIVE  ! 

(Thus  seems  it  we  should  say  to  our  beloved  — 

Each  held  by  such  slight  links,  so  oft  removed  ;) 

And  I  can  let  thee  go  to  the  world's  end, 

All  precious  names,  companion,  love,  spouse,  friend, 

Seal  up  in  an  eternal  silence  grey, 

Like  a  closed  grave  till  resurrection-day: 

All  sweet  remembrances,  hopes,  dreams,  desires, 

Heap,  as  one  heaps  up  sacrificial  fires : 

Then,  turning,  consecrate  by  loss,  and  proud 

Of  penury  —  go  back  into  the  loud 

Tumultuous  world  again  with  never  a  moan  — 

Save  that  which  whispers  still,  "My  own,  my  own," 

Unto  the  same  broad  sky  whose  arch  immense 

Enfolds  us  both  like  the  arm  of  Providence  : 

And  thus,  contented,  I  could  live  or  die, 

With  never  clasp  of  hand  or  meeting  eye 


52  LIVING. 

On  this  side  Paradise.  —  While  thee  I  see 
Living  to  God,  thou  art  alive  to  me. 

O  live  ! 

And  I,  methinks,  can  let  all  dear  rights  go, 
Fond  duties  melt  away  like  April  snow, 
And  sweet,  sweet  hopes,  that  took  a  life  to  weave. 
Vanish  like  gossamers  of  autumn  eve. 
Nay,  sometimes  seems  it  I  could  even  bear- 
To  lay  down  humbly  this  love-crown  I  wear, 
Steal  from  my  palace,  helpless,  hopeless,  poor, 
And  see  another  queen  it  at  the  door  — 
If  only  that  the  king  had  done  no  wrong, 
If  this  my  palace,  where  I  dwelt  so  long, 
Were  not  defiled  by  falsehood  entering  in :  — 
There  is  no  loss  but  change,  no  death  but  sin, 
No  parting,  save  the  slow  corrupting  pain 
Of  murder'd  faith  that  never  lives  again. 

0  live! 

(So  endeth  faint  the  low  pathetic  cry 

Of  love,  whom  death  has  taught  love  cannot  die,) 

And  I  can  stand  above  the  daisy  bed, 

The  only  pillow  for  thy  dearest  head, 

There  cover  up  for  ever  from  my  sight 

My  own,  my  earthly  all  of  earth  delight; 

And  enter  the  sea-cave  of  widow'd  years, 


LIVING.  53 

Where  far,  far  off  the  trembling  gleam  appears 
Through  which  thy  heavenly  image  slipped  away, 
And  waits  to  meet  me  at  the  open  day. 
Only  to  me,  my  love,  only  to  me. 
This  cavern  underneath  the  moaning  sea; 
This  long,  long  life  that  I  alone  must  tread, 
To  whom  the  living  seem  most  like  the  dead, — 
Thou  wilt  be  safe  out  on  the  happy  shore: 
He  who  in  God  lives,  liveth  evermore. 


IN  OUR  BOAT. 

STARS  trembling  o'er  us  and  sunset  before  us, 

Mountains  in  shadow  and  forests  asleep  ; 
Down   the  dim   river  we  float  on   for  ever, 

Speak  not,  ah  breathe   not  —  there  's  peace  on  the 

deep. 
Come  not,  pale   Sorrow,  flee  till  to-morrow, 

Rest   softly  falling  o'er  eyelids  that  weep ; 
While  down  the  river   we  float  on  for  ever, 

Speak  not,    ah   breathe  not,   there  's  peace  on  the 

deep. 
As  the  waves  cover  the  depths  we  glide  over, 

So  let  the  past  in  forgetfulness  sleep, 
While  down  the  river  we  float  on  for  ever, 

Speak  not,  ah    breathe   not,   there  's   peace   on  the 

deep. 
Heaven  shine  above  us,  bless  all  that  love  us, 

All  whom  we  love  in  thy  tenderness  keep  ! 
While  down  the  river  we  float  on  for  ever, 

Speak  not,  ah   breathe   not,    there  's   peace   on    the 
deep. 


THE   RIVER   SHORE. 

For  an  old  tune  of  Dowland's. 

WALKING  by  the  quiet  river 

Where  the  slow  tide  seaward  goes, 
All  the  cares  of  life  fall  from  us, 

All  our  troubles  find  repose : 
Nought  forgetting,  nought  regretting, 

Lovely  ghosts  from  days  no  more 
Glide  with  white  feet  o'er  the  river, 

Smiling  towards  the  silent  shore. 

So  we  pray  in  His  good  pleasure 

When  this  world  we  've  safely  trod, 
We  may  walk  beside  the  river 

Flowing  from  the  throne  of  God: 
All  forgiving,  all  believing, 

Not  one  lost  we  loved  before, 
Looking  towards  the  hills  of  heaven 

Calmly  from  the  eternal  shore. 


A  FLOWER   OF   A  DAY. 

OLD  friend,  that  with  a  pale  and  pensile  grace 
Climbest  the  lush  hedgerows,  art  thou  back  again, 
Marking  the  slow  round  of  the  wond'rous  years  ? 
Didst  beckon  me  a  moment,  silent  flower  ? 

Silent  ?     As  silent  is  the  archangel's  pen 
That  day  by  day  writes  our  life  chronicle, 
And  turns  the  page  ;    the  half-forgotten  page, 
Which  all  eternity  will  never  blot. 

Forgotten  ?  No,  we  never  do  forget : 

We  let  the  years  go :  wash  them  clean  with  tears, 

Leave  them  to  bleach,  out  in  the  open  day, 

Or  lock  them  careful  by,  like  dead  friends'  clothes, 

Till  we  shall  dare  unfold  them  without  pain  — 

But  we  forget  not,  never  can  forget. 

Flower,  thou  and  I  a  moment  face  to  face  — 
My  face  as  clear  as  thine,  this  July  noon 


A  FLOWER   OF   A  DAY.  57 

Shining  on  both,  on  bee  and  butterfly 
And  golden  beetle  creeping  in  the  sun  — 
Will  pause,  and  lifting  up,  page  after  page, 
The  many-colour'd  history  of  life, 
Look  backwards,  backwards. 

So,  the  volume  close! 

This  July  day,  with  the  sun  high  in  heaven, 
And  the  whole  earth  rejoicing  —  let  it  close. 

I  think  we  need  not  sigh,  complain,  nor  rave  ; 

Nor  blush  —  our  doings  and  misdoing  all 

Being  more  'gainst  heaven  than  man,  heaven  them 

does  keep 

With  all  its  doings  and  undoings  strange 
Concerning  us.  —  Ah,  let  the  volume  close : 
I  would  not  alter  in  it  one  poor  line. 

My  dainty  flower,  my  innocent  white  flower 
With  such  a  pure  smile  looking  up  to  heaven, 
With  such  a  bright  smile  looking  down  on  me  — 
f  Nothing  but  smiles  —  as  if  in  all  the  world 
Were  no  such  things  as  thunderstorms  or  frosts, 
Or  broken  petals  trampled  on  the  ground, 
Or  shivering  leaves  whirled  in  the  wintry  air 
Like  ghosts  of  last  year's  joys  :)  —  my  pretty  flower, 
I'll  pluck  thee  —  smiling  too.     Not  one  salt  drop 


A   FLOWER    OF   A   DAY. 

SFiail  stain  thee :  —  if  these  foolish  eyes  are  dim, 
Tis  only  with  a  wondering  thankfulness 
That  they  behold  such  beauty  and  such  peace, 
Such  wisdom  -and  such  sweetness,  in  God's  world. 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  MOWING. 

ALL  shimmering  in  the  morning  shine 

And  diamonded  with  dew, 
And  quivering  in  the  scented  wind 

That  thrills  its  green  heart  through,  — 
The  little  field,  the  smiling  field, 

With  all  its  flowers  a-blowing, 
How  happy  looks  the  golden  field 

The  day  before  the  mowing ! 

All  still  'neath  the  departing  light, 

Twilight,  though  void  of  stars, 
Save  where,  low  westering,  Venus  hides 

From  the  red  eye  of  Mars ; 
How  quiet  lies  the  silent  field 

With  all  its  beauties  glowing  ; 
Just  stirring  —  like  a  child  asleep,  — 

The  night  before  the  mowing. 

Sharp  steel,  inevitable  hand, 
Cut  keen,  cut  kind  !     Our  field 


60  THE   NIGHT   BEFORE   THE   MOWING. 

We  know  full  well  must  be  laid  low 
Before  its  wealth  it  yield : 

Labour  and  mirth  and  plenty  blest 
Its  blameless  death  bestowing : 

And  yet  we  weep,  and  yet  we  weep, 
The  night  before  the  mowing. 


PASSION  PAST. 

WERE  I  a  boy,  with  a  boy's  heart-beat 
At  glimpse  of  her  passing  adown  the  street. 
Of  a  room  where  she  had  enter'd  and  gone, 
Or  a  page  her  hand  had  written  on  — 
Would  all  be  with  me  as  it  was  before? 
Oh  no,  never !  no,  no,  never ! 
Never  any  more. 

Were  I  a  man,  with  a  man's  pulse-throb, 

Breath  hard  and  fierce,  held  down  like  a  sob, 

Dumb,  yet  hearing  her  lightest  word, 

Blind,  until  only  her  garment  stirr'd  : 

Would  I  pour  my  life  like  wine  on  her  floor  ? 

No,  no,  never :  never,  never  ! 

Never  any  more. 

Grey  and  wither'd,  wrinkled  and   marr'd, 

I  have  gone  through  the  fire  and  come  out  unscarr'd. 

With  the  image  of  manhood  upon  me  yet, 


62  PASSION  PAST. 

No  shame  to  remember,  no  wish  to  forget : 
But  could  she  rekindle  the  pangs  I  bore  ?  — 
Oh  no,  never :  thank  God,  never ! 
Never  any  more. 

Old  and  wrinkled,  wither'd  and  grey  — 

And  yet  if  her  light  step  pass'd  to-day, 

I  should  see  her  face  all  faces  among. 

And  say  — "  Heaven  love  thee,  whom  I  loved  long ! 

Thou  hast  lost  the  key  of  my  heart's  door, 

Lost  it  ever,  and  for  ever, 

Ay,  for  evermore." 


OCTOBER. 

IT  is  no  joy  to  me  to  sit 

On  dreamy  summer  eves, 
When  silently  the  timid  moon 

Kisses  the  sleeping  leaves, 
And  all  things  through  the  fair  hush'd  earth 

Love,  rest  —  but  nothing  grieves. 
Better  I  like  old  autumn 

With  his  hair  toss'd  to  and  fro, 
Firm  striding  o'er  the  stubble  fields 

When  the  equinoctials  blow. 

When  shrinkingly  the  sun  creeps  up 

Through  misty  mornings  cold, 
And   Robin  on  the  orchard  hedge 

Sings  cheerily  and  bold, 
While  heavily  the  frosted  plum 

Drops  downwards  on  the  mould ;  — 
And  as  he  passes,  autumn 

Into  earth's  lap  does  throw 


G4  OCTOBER. 

Brown  apples  gay  in  a  game  of  play, 
As  the  equinoctials  blow. 

When  the  spent  year  its  carol  sinks 

Into  a  humble  psalm, 
Asks  no  more  for  the  pleasure  draught, 

But  for  the  cup  of  balm, 
And  all  its  storms  and  sunshine  bursts 

Controls  to  one  brave  calm,  — 
Then  step  by  step  walks  autumn, 

With  steady  eyes  that  show 
Nor  grief  nor  fear,  to  the  death  of  the  year, 

While  the  equinoctials  blow. 


MOON-STRUCK. 
A  FANTASY. 

IT  is  a  moor 

Barren  and  treeless  ;    lying  high  and  bare 
Beneath  the  arched  sky.     The  rushing  winds 
Fly  over  it,  each  with  his  strong  bow  bent 
And  quiver  full  of  whistling  arrows  keen. 

1  arn  a  woman,  lonely,  old,  and  poor. 
If  there  be  any  one  who  watches  me 
(But  there  is  none)  adown  the  long  blank  wold, 
My  figure  painted  on  the  level  sky 
Would  startle  him  as  if  it  were  a  ghost,  — 
And  like  a  ghost,  a  weary  wandering  ghost, 
I  roam  and  roam,  and  shiver  through  the  dark 
That  will  not  hide  me.     O  for  but  one  hour, 
One  blessed  hour  of  warm  and  dewy  night, 
To  wrap  me  like  a  pall  —  with  not  an  eye 
In  earth  or  heaven  to  pierce  the  black  serene. 

5 


66  MOON-STRUCK. 

Night,  call  ye  this  ?     No  night ;   no  dark  —  no  rest  — 
A  moon-ray  sweeps  down  sudden  from  the  sky. 
And  smites  the   moor  — 

Is 't   thou,   accursed  Thing. 

Broad,  pallid,   like  a  great   woe   looming  out  — 
Out   of  its   long-seal'd  grave,   to   fill   all  earth 
With   its  dead  ghastly  smile  ?     Art   there  again, 
Round,   perfect,   large,   as   when  we    buried  thee, 
I   and  the  kindly   clouds  that  heard  my   prayers  ? 
I  '11   sit  me   down  and   meet   thee   face  to  face, 
Mine   enemy  !  —  Why   didst  thou   rise  upon 
My  world  —  my  innocent  world,  to  make  me   mad  ? 
Wherefore   shine   forth,  a  tiny   tremulous   curve 
Hung  out  in   the   grey  sunset  beauteously, 
To    tempt  mine   eyes  —  then   nightly  to   increase 
Slow  orbing,  till  thy  full,   blank,   pitiless  stare 
Hunts  me   across  the  world  ? 

No  rest  —  no  dark. 

Hour  after  hour  that  passionless  bright  face 
Climbs  up  the  desolate  blue.     I  will  press   down 
The  lids   on  my  tired   eye-balls  —  crouch   in  dust, 
And   pray. 

-  Thank  God,   thank    God !  —  a  cloud  has  hid 
My  torturer.     The   night  at  last  is  free: 
Forth  peep   in   crowds  the   merry  twinkling  stars. 
Ah,  we  '11  shine  out,  the  little   silly  stars 
And  I ;  we  '11  dance  together  across  the  moor, 


MOON-STRUCK.  67 

They  up  aloft  —  I  here.     At  last,   at  last 
We   are  avenged  of  our  adversary ! 

The  freshening  of  the  night  air  feels  like   dawn. 
Who   said   that  I   was  mad  ?     I  will  arise, 
Throw  off  my  burthen,   march   across  the   wold 
Airily  —  Pla,  what,    stumbling  ?     Nay,   no   fear  — 
I   am   used   unto  the   dark,  for  many   a  year 
Steering  companionless   athwart  the   waste 
To  where,  deep  hid  in   valleys   of  white  mist, 
The   pleasant  home-lights  shine.     I  will  but  pause, 
Turn   round  and  gaze  —  , 

O   me  !    O   miserable   me  ! 
The  cloud-bank   overflows:   sudden   out-pour 
The  bright  white  moon-rays  —  ah,  I  drown,  I  drown, 
And   o'er  the  flood,    with   steady   motion,  slow 
It   walketh  —  my  inexorable    Doom. 

Xo   more  :   I   shall   not  struggle  any   more  : 
I  will   lie  down  as  quiet  as   a  child,  — 
I  can  but  die. 

There,  I  have  hid  my  face  : 
Stray  travellers  passing  o'er  the  silent  wold 
Would  only  say  "  She  sleeps." 

Glare  on,  my   Doom ; 
I  will  not  look   at  thee :   and  if  at  times 


68  MOON-STRUCK. 

I  shiver,  still  I  neither  weep  nor   moan : 
Angels   may  see,  I   neither  weep  nor  moan. 

Was  that  sharp   whistling  wind  the  morning  breeze 
That  calls  the  stars  back  to  the  obscure  of  heaven  ? 
I  am   very  cold.  —  And  yet  there  is  a  change. 
Less   fiercely  the  sharp   moonbeams   smite  my  brain, 
My  heart  beats   slower,  duller :  soothing  rest 
Like  a  soft  garment  binds  my  shuddering  limbs.  — 
If  I  looked  up  now,  should  I   see  it  still 
Gibbeted   ghastly  in  the  hopeless  sky  ?  — 
No! 

It  is  very   strange :    all  things  seem  strange : 
Pale   spectral   face,   I   do  not  fear  thee  now  : 
Was  't  this  mere  shadow  which   did  haunt  me  once 
Like  an  avenging  fiend  ?  —  Well,  we  fade  out 
Together  :  I  '11  nor  dread  nor  curse  thee  more. 

How  calm  the  earth  seems !  and  I  know  the  moor 

Glistens  with  dew-stars.     I  will  try  and  turn 

My  poor  face  eastward.     Close  not,  eyes  !    That  light 

Fringing  the  far  hills,  all  so  fair  —  so  fair, 

Is  it  not  dawn  ?     I  am  dying,  but  't  is  dawn. 

"  Upon  the   mountains  I  behold  the  feet 

Of  my  Beloved :   let  us  forth  to    meet  "  — 

Death. 


MOON-STRUCK.  69 

This  is  death.      I  see  the  light  no  more; 
I  sleep. 

But  like  a  morning  bird  my  soul 
Springs  singing  upward,  into  the  deeps  of  heaven 
Through  world  on  world  to  follow  Infinite  Day. 


A   STREAM'S   SINGING. 

0  HOW  beautiful  is  Morning! 

How  the  sunbeams  strike  the  daisies, 
And  the  king-cups  fill  the  meadow 
Like  a  golden-shielded  army 

Marching  to  the  uplands  fair;  — 

1  am  going  forth  to  battle, 

And  life's  uplands  rise  before  me, 
And  my  golden  shield  is  ready, 
And  I  pause  a  moment,  timing 
My  heart's  paean  to  the  waters, 
As  with  cheerful  song  incessant 

Onwards  runs  the  little  stream ; 
Singing  ever,  onward  ever, 

Boldly  runs  the  merry  stream. 

O  how  glorious  is  Noon-day  ! 
With  the  cool  large  shadows  lying 
Underneath  the  giant  forest, 
The  far  hill-tops  towering  dimly 

O'er  the  conquered  plains  below ; 


A   STREAM'S   SINGING.  71 

I  am  conquering  —  I  shall  conquer 
In  life's  battle-field  impetuous  : 
And  I  lie  and  listen  dreamy 
To  a  double-voiced,  low  music,  — 
Tender  beech-trees  sheeny  shiver 
Mingled  with  the  diapason 

Of  the  strong,  deep,  joyful  stream, 
Like  a  man's  love  and  a  woman's ; 

So  it  runs  —  the  happy  stream  ! 

0  how  grandly  cometh  Even, 
Sitting  on  the  mountain  summit, 
Purple- vestured,  grave,  and  silent, 
Watching  o'er  the  dewy  valleys, 

Like  a  good  king  near  his  end  :  — 

1  have  laboured,  I  have  govern'd ; 
Now  I  feel  the  gathering  shadows 
Of  the  night  that  closes  all  things : 
And  the  fair  earth  fades  before  me, 
And  the  stars  leap  out  in  heaven, 
While  into  the  infinite  darkness 

Solemn  runs  the  stedfast  stream  — 
Onward,  onward,  ceaseless,  fearless, 
Singing  runs  the  eternal  stream. 


A  REJECTED   LOVER. 

You  "  never  loved  me,"  Ada.     These  slow  words, 
Dropp'd  softly  from  your  gentle  woman-tongue 
Out  of  your  true  and  kindly  woman-heart, 
Fell,  piercing  into  mine  like  very  swords 
The  sharper  for  their  kindness.     Yet  no  wrong 
Lies  to  your  charge,  nor  cruelty,  nor  art, 
Ev'n  while   you    spoke,    I   saw   the    tender   tear-drop 
start. 

You  "never  loved  me."     No,  you  never  knew, 
You,  Avith  youth's  morning  fresh  upon  your  soul, 
What  't  is  to  love:  slow,  drop  by  drop,  to  pour 
Our     life's    whole     essence,     perfumed     through     and 

through 

With  all  the  best  we  have  or  can  control 
For  the  libation  —  cast  it  down  before 
Your  feet  —  then  lift  the  goblet,  dry  for  evermore. 

I  shall  not  die  as  foolish  lovers  do  : 

A  man's  heart  beats  beneath  this  breast  of  mine, 


A  REJECTED   LOVER.  73 

The  breast  where  —  Curse  on  that  fiend-whispering 
"  It  might  have  been  !  "  —  Ada,  I  will  be  true 
Unto  myself — the  self  that  so  loved  thine: 
May  all  life's  pain,  like  these  few  tears  that  spring 
For    me,    glance    off   as    rain-drops    from    my    white 
dove's  wing ! 

May  you  live  long,  some  good  man's  bosom-flower, 
And  gather  children  round  your  matron  knees : 
So,  when  all  this  is  past,  and  you  and  I 
Remember  each  our  youth-days  as  an  hour 
Of  joy  —  or  anguish,  one,  serene,  at  ease, 
May  come  to  meet  the  other's  stedfast  eye, 
Thinking,  "  He  loved  me  well ! "  clasp  hands,  and  so 
pass  by. 


A   LIVING   PICTURE. 

No,  I  '11  not  say  your  name.     I  have  said  it  now, 
As  you  mine,  first  in  childish  treble,  then 
Up  through  a  score  and  more  familiar  years 
Till  baby-voices  mock  us.     Time  may  come 
When  your  tall  sons  look  down  on  our  white  hair, 
Amused   to  hear  us  call  each  other  thus, 
And  question  us  about  the  old,  old  days, 
The   far-off  days,   the  days  when  we  were  young. 

How  distant  do  they  seem,  and  yet  how   near! 
Now,  as  I  lie  and  watch  you  come   and  go, 
With  garden  basket  in   your   hand  ;   in   gown 
Just  girdled,  and  brown  curls   that  girl-like   fall, 
And  straw   hat  flapping  in   the  April  breeze, 
I   could  forget  this  lapse  of  years  —  start   up 
Laughing  —  "  Come,  let  's  go  play  !  " 

Well-a-day,  friend. 
Our  play-days  are  all  done. 

Still,  let  us  smile: 
For  as  you  flit  about  your  garden  here 


A  LIVING   PICTURE.  75 

You  look  like   this   spring  morning :  on  your  lips 
An  unseen  bird  sings   snatches  of  gay  tunes, 
While,  an  embodied  music,  moves  your  step, 
Your  free,  wild,  springy  step,  like  Atala's, 
Or  Pocahontas,  careless   child  o'  the  sun  — 
Those  Indian  beauties   I  compare  you  to  — 
I,  still  your  praiser, — 

Nay,  nay,  I  '11  not  praise, 
Fair   seemeth  fairest,  ignorant  't  is  fair : 
That  light   incredulous   laugh  is  worth  a  world! 
That  laugh,   with  childish  echoes. 

So  then,  fade, 

Mere  dream.     Come,  true  and   sweet  reality: 
Come,  dawn  of  happy  wifehood,  motherhood, 
Ripening  to  perfect  noon  !     Come,  peaceful  round 
Of  simple  joys,  fond  duties,   gladsome  cares, 
When  each  full  hour  drops  bliss   with  liberal  hand 
Yet  leaves  to-morrow  richer  than   to-day. 

Will  you   sit  here  ?   the  grass  is  summer-wTarm. 
Look  at  those   children  making   daisy-chains, 
So  did  we  too,  do   you   mind  ?     That  eldest  lad 
He  has  your  very  mouth.     Yet,  you  will  have  't 
His  eyes  are  like   his   father's  ?     Perhaps   so : 
They   could  not  be   more  dark  and  deep   and  kind. 
Do  you   know,   this   hour  I   have   been   fancying  you 
A  poet's  dream,  and  almost  sigh'd   to  think 


76  A  LIVING  PICTURE. 

There   was  no  poet  to  praise  you  — 

Why,  you  're  flown 

After  those  mad  elves  in  the   flower-beds  there, 
Ha  —  ha  —  you're   no  dream   now. 

Well,  well  —  so  best! 

My  eyelids  droop  content  o'er  moistened  eyes  : 
I   would  not  have  you  other  than  you  are. 


LEONORA. 

LEONORA,  Leonora, 
How   the  word  rolls  —  Leonora  — 
Lion-like,   in  full-mouth'd  sound, 
Marching  o'er  the   metric  ground 
With  a  tawny  tread  sublime  — 
So  your  name  moves,  Leonora, 
Down  my   desert  rhyme. 

So  you  pace,  young  Leonora, 
Through  the  alleys  of  the  wood, 
Head  erect,  majestic,   tall, 
The  fit  daughter  of  the    Hall  : 
Yet  with  hazel  eyes   declined, 
And  a  voice  like  summer   wind, 
And  a  meek  mouth,  sweet  and   good, 
Dimpling  ever,    Leonora, 
In  fair   womanhood. 


LEONORA. 

How  those  smiles   dance,    Leonora, 
As  you  meet  the  pleasant  breeze 
Under  your  ancestral   trees  : 
For  your  heart  is  free  and   pure 
As  this   blue   March  sky  o'erhead, 
And  in    the  life-path  you   tread, 
All  the  leaves   are  budding,  sure. 
All   the   primroses  are  springing, 
All   the   birds  begin  their  singing  — 
'T  is  your  spring-time,   Leonora, 
May   it  long   endure. 

But  it  will  pass,   Leonora  : 
And  the  silent   days   must  fall 
When  a  change  comes  over  all : 
When   the  last  leaf  downward  flitters, 
And  the  last,  last  sunbeam  glitters 
On   the   terraced  hill-side   cool, 
On  the  peacocks   by  the  pool : 
When  you  '11   walk  along  these  alleys 
With  no  lightsome  foot   that   dallies 
With   the   violets  and  the  moss,  — 
But   with   quiet   steps  and   slow, 
And  grave  eyes  that   earthward  grow, 
And    a   matron-heart   inured 
To  all  women   have  endured,  — 


LEONORA. 

Must  endure   and  ever   will, 
All   the  joy   and   all  the  ill, 
All  the  gain   and  all   the   loss  — 
Can   you  cheerfully  lay  down 
Careless  girlhood's  flowery   crown. 
And   thus   take   up,   Leonora, 
Womanhood's   meek   cross  ? 

Ay  !   your  eyes    shine,   Leonora, 

Warm,   and   true,   and  brave,   and   kind : 

And   although   I   nothing   know 

Of  the   maiden  heart  belo\v, 

I  in    them  good  omens   find. 

Go,   enjoy  your  present   hours 

Like   the  birds   and   bees  and  flowers : 

And  may   summer  days  bestow 

On   you  just  so   much   of  rain, 

Blessed   baptism  of  pain ! 

As   will  make  your  blossoms   grow. 

May  you  walk,   as    through   life's  road 

Every  noble  woman  can,  — 

With   a   pure  heart  before    God, 

And  a  true  heart  unto  man  : 

Till  with  this  same  smile  you  wait 

For  the  opening  of  the  Gate 

That  shuts  earth  from  mortal  eyes  ; 


80  LEONORA. 

Till  at  last,  with  peaceful  heart, 

All  contented  to  depart, 

Leaving  children's  children  playing 

In  these  woods  you  used  to  .stray  in, 

You  may  enter,  Leonora, 

Into  Paradise. 


PLIGHTED. 

MINE  to  the  core  of  the  heart,  my  beauty  ! 
Mine,  all  mine,  and  for  love,  not  duty  :         , 
Love  given  willingly,  full  and  free, 
Love  for  love's  sake  —  as  mine  to  thee. 

Duty  's  a  slave  that  keeps  the  keys, 
But  Love,  the  master,  goes  in  and  out  . 
Of  his  goodly  chambers  with  song  and  shout, 

Just  as  he  please — just  as  he  please. 

Mine,  from  the  dear  head's  crown,  brown-golden, 
To  the  silken  foot  that  's  scarce  beholden  ; 
Give  to  a  few  friends  hand  or  smile, 
Like  a  generous  lady,  now  and  awhile, 

But  the  sanctuary  heart,  that  none  dare  win, 
Keep  holiest  of  holiest  evermore  ; 
The  crowd  in  the  aisles  may  watch  the  door, 

The  high-priest  only  enters  in. 

Mine,  my  own,  without  doubts  or  terrors, 
With  all  thy  goodnesses,  all  thy  errors, 


PLIGHTED. 

Unto  me  and  to  me  alone  reveal'd, 
"A  spring  shut  up,  a  fountain  seal'd." 

Many  may  praise  thee  —  praise  mine  as  thine. 
Many  may  love  thee  —  I  '11  love  them  too ; 
But  thy  heart  of  hearts,  pure,  faithful,  arid  true, 

Must  be  mine,  mine  wholly,  and  only  mine. 

Mine  !  —  God,  I  thank  Thee  that  Thou  hast  given 
Something  all  mine  on  this  side  heaven  : 
Something  as  much  myself  to  be 
As  this  my  soul  which  I  lift  to  Thee  : 

Flesh  of  my  flesh,  bone  of  my  bone, 
Life  of  my  life,  whom  Thou  dost  make 
Two  to  the  world  for  the  world's  work's  sake  — 

But  each  unto  each,  as  in  Thy  sight,  one. 


MORTALITY. 

"  And  we  shall  be  changed." 

YE  dainty  mosses,  lichens  grey, 

Press'd  each  to  each  in  tender  fold, 

And 'peacefully  thus,  day  by  day, 
Returning  to  their  mould; 

Brown  leaves,  that  with  aerial  grace 

Slip  from  your  branch  like  birds  a-wing, 

Each  leaving  in  the  appointed  place 
Its  bud  of  future  spring ;  — 

If  we,  God's  conscious  creatures,  knew 
But  half  your  faith  in  our  decay, 

We  should  not  tremble  as  we  do 
When  summon'd  clay  to  clay. 

But  with  an   equal  patience  sweet 
We  should  put  off  this  mortal  gear, 


84  MORTALITY. 

In  whatsoe'er  new  form  is  meet 
Content  to  re-appear. 

Knowing  each  germ  of  life  He  gives 
Must  have  in  Him  its  source  and  rise, 

Being  that  of  His  being  lives 
May  change,  but  never  dies.- 

Ye  dead  leaves,  dropping  soft  and  slow, 
Ye  mosses  green  and  'lichens  fair, 

Go  to  your  graves,  as  I  will  go, 
For  God  is  also  there. 


LIFE    RETURNING. 

After  War-time. 

0  LIFE,  dear  life,  with  sunbeam  finger  touching 
This  poor  damp  brow,  or  flying  freshly  by 
On  wings  of  mountain  wind,  or  tenderly 

In   links  of  visionary  embraces  clutching 

Me  from  the  yawning  grave  — 
Can  I  believe  thou  yet  hast  power  to  save  ? 

1  see  thee,   0  my  life,  like  phantom  giant 
Stand  on  the  hill-top,  large  against  the  dawn, 
Upon  the    night-black  clouds  a  picture  drawn 

Of  aspect   wonderful,  with  hope  defiant, 

And  so  majestic  grown 
I  scarce  discern   the  image  as  my  own. 

Those     mists     furl     off,     and     through     the    vale   re 
splendent 
I  see  the  pathway   of  my  years  prolong : 


86  LIFE   RETURNING. 

Not  without  labour,  yet  for  labour  strong : 
Not  without   pain,   but    pain   whose    touch    transcen 
dent      . 

By  love's   divinest  laws 
Heart  unto  heart,  and  all  hearts   upwards,  draws. 

0  life,  O  love,  your  diverse  tones  bewildering 
Make  silence,  like  two  meeting   waves  of  sound  ; 

1  dream  of  wifely   white   arms,  lisp  of  children  — 
Never  of  ended  wars, 

Save  kisses  sealing  honourable  scars. 

No  more  of  battles  !    save  the  combat  glorious 

To  which  all  earth  and  heaven  may  witness  stand ; 
The  sword  of  the  Spirit  taking  in  my  hand 

I  shall  go  forth,  since  in  new  fields  victorious 
The  King  yet  grants  that  I 

His  servant  live,  or  His  good  soldier  die. 


MY   FRIEND. 

MY  Friend  wears  a  cheerful  smile  of  his  own. 

And  a  musical  tongue  has  he  ; 
We  sit  and  look  in  each  other's  face, 

And  are  very  good  company. 
A  heart  he  has,  full  warm  and  red 

As  ever  a  heart  I  see  ; 
And  as  long  as  I  keep  true  to  him, 

Why,  he  '11  keep  true  to  me. 

When  the  wind  blows  high  and  the  snow  falls  fast 

And  we  hear  the  wassailers'  roar  — 
My  Friend  and  I,  with  a  right  good-will 

We  bolt  the  chamber  door : 
I  smile  at  him  and  he  smiles  at  me 

In  a  dreamy  calm  profound, 
Till  his  heart  leaps  up  in  the  midst  of  him 

With  a  comfortable  sound. 

His  warm  breath  kisses  rny  thin  grey  hair 
And  reddens  my  ashen  cheeks  ; 


MY   FRIEND. 

He  knows  me  better  than   you   all  know, 
Though  never  a   word  he  speaks  :  — 

Knows  me  as  well  as   some  had  known 
Were   things  —  not  as  things  be. 

But  hey,  what  matters  ?   my  Friend  and  I 
Are  capital  company. 

At  dead  of  night,  when  the  house  is   still, 

He  opens  his  pictures  fair : 
Faces  that  are,  that  used  to  be, 

And  faces  that  never  were : 
My  wife  sits  sewing  beside   my  hearth, 

My  little  ones  frolic  wild, 
Though  —  Lillian  's   married   these   twenty   years, 

And  I  never  had  a  child. 

But  hey,  what  matters?   when   those  who   laugh 

May  weep  to-morrow,  and  they 
Who  weep  be  as  those   that  wept  not  —  all 

Their  tears  long  wiped  away. 
I   shall  burn  out,  like  you,  my  Friend, 

With  a  bright  warm  heart  and  bold, 
That  flickers  up  to  the  last  —  then  drops 

Into  quiet  ashes  cold. 

And  when  you   flicker  on   me,  old  Friend, 
In   the  old  man's  elbow-chair, 


MY    FRIEND.  89 

Or  —  something  easier  still,  where  we 

Lie  down,  to  arise  up  fair 
And  young,  and  happy  —  why  then,  my  Friend, 

Should  other  friends   ask   of  me, 
Tell  them   I  lived  and  loved  and  died 

In  the  best   of  all  company. 


A    VALENTINE. 

YE   are  twa  laddies  unco  gleg, 

An'  blithe  an'  bonnie: 
As  licht  o'  heel  as  Anster's  Meg ;  — 
Gin  ye  'd  a  lassie's  favour  beg, 
I'  faith  she  couldna  stir  a  peg 

Alice  lookin'  on  ye ! 

He  's  a  douce  wiselike  callant  —  Jim  : 

Of  wit  aye  ready. 

Cuts  aff  ane's  sentence,  t'  ither's  limb, 
An'  whiles  he  's  daft  and  whiles  he  's  grim, 
But  brains  ?  —  wha  's  got  the  like  o'  him 

In  's  wee  bit  heidie  ? 

Dear  laddie  wi'  the  curlin'  hair, 

Gentlest  of  ony  : 

That  gies  kind  looks  an'  speeches  fail- 
To  dour  auld  wives  as  lassies  rare,  — 
I  ken  a  score  o'  lads  an'  mair, 

But  nane  like  Johnnie  ! 


A  VALENTINE.  91 

And  gin  ye  learn  the  way  to  woo, 

Hae  sweethearts  mony, 
O  laddie,  never  say  ye  loe 
An'  gie  fause  coin  for  siller  true ; 
A  lassie's  sair  heart  's  naething  new,  — 

Mind  o'  that,  Johnnie. 

An'  dinna  change  your  luve  sae  fast 

For  ilk  face  bonnie, 
Lest  waefu'  want  track  wilfu'  waste, 
And  a'  your  youthfu'  years  lang  past. 
Ye  get  the  crookit  stick  at  last, 

Ochone,  puir  Johnnie  ! 

But  callants  baith,  tak  tent,  and  when 

Bright  e'en  hae  won  ye, 
Tak  each  your  jo  —  and  keep  her  —  then 
Be  faithfu'  as  ye  're  fond,  ye  ken, 
Or  —  gang  your  gate  like  honest  men, 

Young  Jim  and  Johnnie. 

Sae  when  auld  Time  his  crookit  claw 

Sail  lay  upon  ye, 

When,  Jim,  your  feet  that  dance  sae  braw 
Are  no  the  lightest  in  the  ha', 
An'  a'  your  curly  haffets  fa', 

My  winsome  Johnnie,  — 


92  A   VALENTINE. 

May  each  his  ain  warm  ingle  view, 

Cosie  as  ony : 

A  gudewife  sonsie,  leal  and  true, 
0'  bonnie  dochters  not  a  few, 
An'  lads  —  sic  lads  as  ye  're  the  noo  — 

Dear  Jim  and  Johnnie  ! 


GRACE   OF   CLYDESTDE. 

AH,  little   Grace  of  the  golden  locks, 

The  hills  rise  fair  on  the  shores  of  Clyde. 
As  the  merry  waves  wear  out  these  rocks 
She  wears  my  heart  out,  glides  past  and  mocks  : 
But  heaven's  gate  ever  stands  open  wide. 

The  boat  goes   softly  along,   along, 

Like  a  river  of  life  glows  the  amber  Clyde ; 
Her  voice  floats  near  me  like  angels'  song, — 
Ah,  sweet  love-death,  but  thy  pangs  are  strong! 

Though  heaven's  gate  ever  stands  open  wide. 

We  walk  by  the  shore  and  the  stars   shine  bright, 

But  coldly,  above  the  solemn   Clyde  : 
Her  arm  touches   mine  —  her  laugh  rings  light  — 
ONE   hears  my  silence :   His  merciful  night 
Hides  me  —  Can  heaven  be  open    wide  ? 

I  ever  was   but  a  dreamer,   Grace : 

As  the   grey  hills  watch  o'er  the  sunny  Clyde, 


04  GRACE   OF   CLYDESIDE. 

Standing  afar,   each   in  his  place, 
I  watch   your  young  life's  beautiful  race, 
Apart  —  until  heaven  be  opened   wide. 

And  sometimes   when  in  the  twilight  balm 

O 

The   hills   grow   purple  along  the    Clyde, 
The   waves  flow   softly  and   very   calm, 
I  hear  all  nature  sing  this  one  psalm, 

That   "  heaven's  gate  ever  stands  open   wide." 

So,   happy   Grace,   with  your  spirit  free, 

Laugh   on !   life  is   sweet  on  the  banks  of  Clyde 

This  is  no  blame   unto  thee  or  me  ; 

Only   God   saw  it   could  not  be, 

Therefore   His  heaven   stands  open   wide. 


TO   A  BEAUTIFUL  WOMAN. 

"  A  daughter  of  the  gods  :  divinely  tall, 
And  most  divinely  fair." 

SURELY,  dame  Nature  made  you   in  some   dream 
Of  old-world   women  —  Chriemhild,   or  bright 

'  O 

Aslauga,   or  Boadicea  fierce  and  fair, 

Or   Berengaria  as   she  rose,  her  lips 

Yet  ruddy  from  the   poison  that  anoints 

Her  memory   still,  the  queen  of  queenly  wives. 

I  marvel,  who  will  crown  you   wife,  you   grand 

And  goodly  creature  !   who   will  mount  supreme 

The  empty  chariot  of  your  maiden   heart, 

Curb  the  strong  will  that  leaps  and  foams  and  chafes 

Still  masterless,   and  guide  you   safely   home 

Unto  the  golden  gate,   where   quiet   sits 

Grave   Matronhood,   with  gracious,   loving   eyes. 

What   eyes   you  have,  you  wild  gazelle  o'  the   plain, 
You  fierce   hind   of  the   forest !   now   they  flash, 


9G  TO  A   BEAUTIFUL   WOMAN. 

Now  glow,  now  in   their  own  dark  down-dropt   shade 
Conceal  themselves   a  moment,  as   some  thought 
Too  brief  to   be   a  feeling,   flits   across 
The    April   cloudland  of  your   careless   soul  — 
There  —  that  light    laugh  —  and  't  is   full   sun  —  full 
day. 

Would  I  could  paint  you,  line   by   line,   ere   Time 

Touches   the  gorgeous   picture  !   your  ripe   mouth, 

Your  white  arch'd  throat,  your  stature  like  to    Saul's 

Among  his  brethren,  yet  so  fitly  framed 

In  such  harmonious  symmetry,  we  say 

As  of  a  cedar  among  common  trees 

Never  "  How  tall !  "  but  only  "  O  how  fair ! " 

Who  made  you  fair?  moulded  you  in  the  shape 
That  poets  dream  of;    sent  you  forth  to  men 
His  caligraph  inscribed  on  every  curve 
Of  your  brave  form? 

Is  it  written  on  your  soul  ? 
—  I  know  not. 

Woman,  upon  whom  is  laid 
Heaven's    own    sign-manual,    Beauty,    mock    heaven 

not! 

Reverence  thy  loveliness  —  the  outward  type 
Of  things  we  understand  not,  nor  behold 
But  as  in  a  glass,  darkly  ;  wear  it  thou 


TO    A    BEAUTIFUL   WOMAN.  97 

With  awful  gladness,  grave  humility, 

That  not  contemns,  nor  boasts,  nor  is  ashamed, 

But  lifts  its  face  up  prayerfully  to  heaven,  — 

"  Thou  who  hast  made  me,  make  me  worthy  Thee ! " 


MARY'S    WEDDING. 

February  25th,  1851. 

You  are  to  be  married,  Mary, 

This  hour  as  I  wakeful  lie 
In  the  dreamy  dawn  of  the  morning, 

Your  wedding  hour  draws  nigh  ; 
Miles  off,  you  are  rising,  dressing, 

Your  bridemaidens  gay  among, 
In  the  same  old  rooms  we  played  in,  — 

You  and  I,  when  we  were  young. 

Your  bridemaids — they  were  our  playmates 

Those  known  rooms,  every  wall, 
Could  speak  of  our  childish  frolics, 

Loves,  jealousies,  great  and  small : 
Do  you  mind  how  pansies  changed  we 

And  smiled  at  the  word  "forget?" 
T  was  a  girl's  romance:    yet  somehow 

I  have  kept  my  pansy  yet. 


MARY'S   WEDDING. 

Do  you  mind  our  poems  written 

Together  ?  our  dreams  of  fame  — 
And  of  love  —  how  we  'd  share  all  secrets 

When  that  sweet  mystery  came? 
It  is  no  mystery  now,  Mary  ; 

It  was  unveiled,  year  by  year, 
Till  —  this  is  your  marriage  morning  ; 

And  I  rest  quiet  here. 

I  cannot  call  up  your  face,  Mary, 

The  face  of  the  bride  to-day: 
You  have  outgrown  my  knowledge, 

The  years  have  so  slipp'd  away. 
I  see  but  your  girlish  likeness, 

Brown  eyes  and  brown  falling  hair ;  — 
God  knows,  I  did  love  you  dearly, 

And  was  proud  that  you  were  fair. 

Many  speak  my  name,  Mary, 

While  yours  in  home's   silence  lies : 
The  future  I  read  in  toil's  guerdon, 

You  will  read  in  your  children's  eyes  : 
The  past  —  the  same  past  with  either  — 

Is  to  you  a  delightsome  scene, 
But  I  cannot  trace  it  clearly 

For  the  graves  that  rise  between. 


100  MARY'S    WEDDING. 

I  am  glad  you  are  happy.  Mary  ! 

These  tears,  could  you  see  them  fall, 
Would  show,  though  you  have  forgotten. 

I  have  remembered  all. 
And  though  my  cup  may  be  empty 

While  yours  is  all  running  o'er, 
Heaven  keep  you  its  sweetness,  Mary, 

Brimming  for  evermore. 


BETWEEN  TWO  WORLDS. 

Parting  for  Australia. 

HEBE   sitting  by   the  fire 

I  aspire,  love,  I  aspire  — 
Not  to  that   "other   world"   of  your  fond  dreams, 

But  one   as   nigh  and   nigher, 
Compared  to   which  your  real,   unreal  seems. 

Together  as  to-night 

In  our  light,  love,  in  our   light 
Of  reunited  joy  appears   no  shade  : 

From   this   our  hope's   reach'd   height 
All  things  are   possible  and  level   made. 

Therefore   we  sit  and   view  — 

I  and  you,  love,  I  and  you  — 
That   wondrous   valley  o'er  southern   seas, 

Where   in   a   country   new 
You  will  make  for  me  a  sweet  nest  of  ease ; 


102  BETWEEN   TWO   WORLDS. 

Where   I,   your  poor  tired  bird, 

(Nothing  stirred  ?     Love,   nothing  stirred  ?) 

May  fold  her  wings   and  be  no  more  distrest : 
Where  troubles  may  be  heard 

Like  outside   winds  at  night  which  deepen  rest. 

Where  in  green  pastures  wide 

We  '11  abide,  love,   we  '11  abide, 
And  keep   content  our  patriarchal  flocks, 

Till  at  our  aged  side 
Leap  our  young  brown-faced  shepherds  of  the  rocks. 

Ah,  tale  that  's   easy   told  ! 

(Hold  my  hand,  love,  tighter  hold.) 
What  if  this   face  of  mine,   which  you  think   fair  — 

If  it  should  ne'er  grow   old, 
Nor  matron  cap  cover  this   maiden  hair  ? 

What  if  this   silver  ring 

(Loose  it  clings,  love,  yet  does  cling :) 
Should  ne'er  be  changed  for  any  other  ?    nay, 

This  very  hand  I  fling 
About  your  neck  should —     Hush!   to-day's  to-day: 

To-morrow  is  —  ah,  whose  ? 

You  '11   not  lose,  love,  you  '11  not  lose 


BETWEEN   TWO   WORLDS.  103 

This   hand  I  pledged,  if  never  a  wife's  hand 

For  tender  household  use 
Led  by  yours  fearless  into  a  far,  far  land. 

Kiss  me  and  do  not  grieve  ; 

I  believe,  love,  I  believe 
That   He   who  holds  the  measure  of  our  days, 

And  did  thus  strangely   weave 
Our  opposite  lives  together,  to   His  praise  — 

He  never  will  divide 

Us  so  wide,  love,   us   so  wide: 
But  will,   whate'er  befalls  us,   clearly  show 

That  those  in   Him  allied 
In  life  or  death  are   nearer  than  they  know. 


COUSIN  ROBERT. 

O  COUSIN  Robert,  far  away 

Among  the  lands  of  gold, 
How  many  years  since  we  two  met?  — 

You  would  not  like  it  told. 

0  cousin  Robert,  buried  deep 
Amid  your  bags  of  gold  — 

1  thought  I  saw  you  yesternight 
Just  as  you  were  of  old. 

You  own  whole  leagues  —  I  half  a  rood 

Behind  my  cottage  door  ; 
You  have  your  lacs  of  gold  rupees, 

And  I  my  children  four ; 

Your  tall  barques  dot  the  dangerous  seas, 
My  "ship's  come  home"  —  to  rest 

Safe  anchor'd  from  the  storms  of  life 
Upon  one  faithful  breast. 


COUSIN   ROBERT.  105 

And  it  would  cause  no  start  or  sigh, 

Nor  thought  of  doubt  or  blame, 
If  I  should  teach  our  little  son 

His  cousin  Robert's  name.  — 

That  name,  however  wide  it  rings, 

I  oft  think,  when  alone, 
I  rather  would  have  seen  it  graved 

Upon  a  churchyard  stone  — 

Upon  the  white  sunshining  stone 

Where  cousin  Alick  lies  : 
Ah,  sometimes,  woe  to  him  that  lives ! 

Happy  is  he  that  dies ! 

0  Robert,  Robert,  many  a  tear  — 
Though  not  the  tears  of  old  — 

Drops,  thinking  of  your  face  last  night 
Your  hand's  remember'd  fold  ; 

A  young  man's  face,  so  like,  so  like 

Our  mothers'  faces  fair: 
A  young  man's  hand,  so  firm  to  clasp, 

So  resolute  to  dare. 

1  thought  you  good  —  I  wish'd  you  great; 
You  were  my  hope,  my  pride  : 


106  COUSIN   ROBERT. 

To  know  you  good,  to  make  YOU  great 
I  once  had  happy  died. 

To  tear  the  plague-spot  from  your  heart, 

Place  honour  on  your  brow, 
See  old  age  come  in  crowned  peace  — 

I  almost  would  die  now  ! 

Would  give  —  all  that 's  now  mine  to  give 

To  have  you  sitting  there, 
The  cousin  Robert  of  my  youth  — 

Though  beggar'd,  with  grey  hair. 

O  Robert,  Robert,  some  that  live 
Are  dead,  long  ere  they  are  old ; 

Better  the  pure  heart  of  our  youth 
Than  palaces  of  gold  ; 

Better  the  blind  faith  of  our  youth 
Than  doubt,  which  all  truth  braves ; 

Better  to  mourn,  God's  children  dear, 
Than  laugh,  the  devil's  slaves. 

0  Robert,  Robert,  life  is  sweet, 

And  love  is  boundless  gain : 
5Tet  if  I  mind  of  you,  my  heart 

Is  stabb'd  with  sudden  pain  : 


COUSIN   ROBERT.  107 

And  as  in  peace  this  Christmas  eve 

I  close  our  quiet  doors, 
And  kiss  "good-night"  on  sleeping  heads  - 

Such  bonnie  curls.  —  like  yours: 

I  fall  upon  my  bended  knees 

With  sobs  that  choke  each  word  ;  — 

"On  those  who  err  and  are  deceived 
Have  mercy,  0  good  LORD  ! " 


AT    LAST. 

DOWN,  down  like  a  pale  leaf  dropping 

Under  an  autumn   sky, 
My  love  dropp'd  into  my  bosom 

Quietly,  quietly. 

There  was  not  a  ray  of  sunshine 
And  not  a  sound  in  the  air, 

As  she  trembled  into  my  bosom  — 
My  love,  no  longer  fair. 

All  year  round  in  her  beauty 
She  dwelt  on  the  tree-top  high  : 

She  danced  in  the  summer  breezes, 
She  laugh'd  to  the  summer  sky. 

I  lay  so  low  in  the  grass-dews. 

She  sat  so  high  above, 
She  never  wist  of  rny  longing, 

She  never  dream'd  of  my  love. 


AT   LAST.  109 

But  when  winds  laid  bare  her  dwelling, 
And  her  heart  could  find  no  rest, 

I  call'd  —  and  she  flutter'd  downward 
Into  my  faithful  breast. 

I  know  that  my  love  is  fading  ; 

I  know  I  cannot  fold 
Her  fragrance  from  the  frost-blight, 

Her  beauty  from  the  mould  : 

But  a  little,  little  longer 

She  shall  contented  lie, 
And  wither  away  in  the  sunshine 

Silently,  silently. 

Come  when  thou  wilt,  grim  winter., 

My  year  is  crown'd  and  blest 
If  when  my  love  is  dying 

She  die  upon  my  breast. 


THE   AURORA   ON   THE   CLYDE. 

September,  1850. 

AH   me,  how   heavily   the  night  comes  down, 

Heavily,  heavily : 

Fade  the  curved  shores,  the  blue  hills'  serried  throng, 
The  darkening  waves   we  oar'd  in  light  and   song  : 
Joy  melts  from  us  as  sunshine  from  the   sky 

And  Patience  with  sad  eye 
Takes   up   her  staff  and  drops  her  wither'd   crown. 

Our  small  boat  heaves  upon   the   heaving  river, 

Wearily,    wearily  : 

The   flickering   shore-lights   come  and  go   by  fits ; 
Towering  'twixt  earth  and  heaven  dusk  silence  sits, 
Death  at  her  feet ;    above,   infinity ; 

Between,   slow  drifting  by, 
Our  tiny  boat,  like   life,  floats  onward  ever. 

Pale,   mournful  hour,  —  too   early   night  that   falls 
Drearily,  drearily, 


THE  AURORA  ON  THE  CLYDE.       Ill 

Come  not  so  soon!  Return,  return,  bright  day, 
Kind  voices,  smiles,  blue  mountains,  sunny  bay! 
In  vain  !  Life's  dial  cannot  backward  fly : 

The  dark  time  comes.     Low  lie, 
And  listen,  soul.     Oft  in  the  night,  God  calls. 
****** 

Light,  light  on  the  black  river !     How  it  gleams, 

Solemnly,   solemnly  ! 

Like  troops  of  pale  ghosts  on  their  pensive  march, 
Treading  the  far  heavens  in  a  luminous  arch, 
Each  after  each  :    phantasms  serene  and  high 

From  that  eternity 
Where  all  earth's  sharpest  woes  grow  dim  as  dreams. 

Let  us  drink  in  the  glory,  full  and  whole, 

Silently,  silently  : 

Gaze,  till  it  lulls  all  pain,  all  vain  desires  :  — 
See  now,  that  radiant  bow  of  pillar'd  fires 
Spanning  the  hills  like  dawn,  until  they  lie 

In  soft  tranquillity, 
And  all  night's  ghastly  glooms  asunder  roll. 

Look,  look  again  !   the  vision  changes  fast, 

Gloriously,  gloriously  : 

That  was  heaven's  gate  with  its  illumined  road, 
But  this  is  heaven  ;    the  very  throne  of  God 
Hun"1  with  flame  curtains  of  celestial  dye 


112        THE  AURORA  ON  THE  CLYDE. 

Waving  perpetually, 
While  to  and  fro  innumerous  angels  haste. 

I  see  no  more  the  stream,  the  boat  that  moves 

Mournfully,  mournfully  : 
And   we  who  sit,  poor  prisoners  of  clay : 
It  is  not  night,   it  is   immortal   day, 
Where  the   One   Presence  fills   eternity, 

And  each,   His  servant  high, 
For  ever  praises  and  for  ever  loves. 

0  soul,  forget  the  weight  that  drags  thee   down 

Deathfully,   deathfully : 

Know  thyself.  As  this  glory  wraps  thee  round, 
Let  it  melt  off  the  chains  that  long  have  bound 
Thy  strength.  Stand  free  before  thy  God  and  cry- 

i%  My   Father,  here  am  I : 
Give  to  me  as  Thou  wilt  —  first  cross,  then  crown. 


AN  AURORA  BOREALIS. 

Roslin  Castle. 

O   STKANGE   soft  gleam,   O   ghostly  dawn 
That  never  brightens  unto   day  ; 

Ere   earth's  mirk  pale  once  more   be  drawn 
Let  us  look  out  beyond  the  grey. 

It  is  just  midnight   by   the   clock  — 
There  is  no   sound  on   glen   or  hill, 

The  moaning  linn   adowri   its   rock 

Leaps,   but  the   woods   lie  dark   and   still. 

Austere  against  the  kindling  sky 
Yon  broken  turret  blacker  grows  ; 

Harsh  light,  to  show  remorselessly 
Ruins  night  hid  in  kind  repose  ! 

Nay,  beauteous  light,  nay,  light  that  fills 
The  whole  heaven  like  a  dream  of  morn, 

As  waking  upon  northern  hills 

She  smiles  to  find  herself  new-born,  — 

8 


114  AN  AURORA   BOREALIS. 

Strange  light,  I  know  thou  wilt  not  stay, 
That  many  an  hour  must  come  and  go 

Before  the  pale  November  day 

Break  in  the  east,  forlorn  and  slow. 

Yet  blest  one  gleam  —  one  gleam  like   this, 
When  all   heaven   brightens  in   our  sight, 

And  the  long  night   that  was  and  is 
And  shall  be,  vanishes  in  light : 

O  blest  one  hour  like  this !  to  rise 

And  see  grief's  shadows  backward  roll; 

While  bursts  on  unaccustomed  eyes 
The  glad  Aurora  of  the  soul. 


AT   THE   LINN-SIDE. 

Roslin. 

O  LIVING,  living  water, 

So  busy  and  so  bright, 
Aye  flashing  in  the  morning  beams, 

And  sounding  through  the  night ; 
O  golden-shining  water  — 

Would  God  that  I  might  be 
A  vocal  message  from  His  mouth 

Into  the  world,  like  thee  ! 

O  merry,  merry  water, 

Which  nothing  e'er  affrays ; 
And  as  it  pours  from  rock  to  rock 

Nothing  e'er  stops  or  stays ; 
But  past  cool  heathery  hollows 

And  gloomy  pools  it  flows  ; 
Past  crags   that  fain  would  shut  it  in 

Leaps  through  —  and  on  it  goes. 


116  AT   THE   LINN-SIDE. 

O  fresh'ning,  sparkling  water, 

O  voice  that's  never    still, 
Though  winter  lays  her  dead-white   hand 

On  brae  and  glen   and  hill ; 
Though  no  leaf  's  left  to  flutter 

In  woods  all  mute  and  hoar. 
Yet  thou,  O  river,  night  and  day 

Thou  runnest  evermore. 

No  foul  thing  can  pollute  thee ; 

Thy  swiftness  casts  aside 
All  ill,  like  a  good  heart  and  true, 

However  sorely  tried. 
O  living,  living  water, 

So  fresh  and  bright  and  free  — 
God  lead  us  through  this  changeful  world 

For  ever  pure,  like  thee ! 


A   HYMN  FOR   CHRISTMAS  MORNING. 

1855. 

IT  is  the  Christmas  time  : 

And  up  and  down  twixt  heaven  and  earth, 

In  glorious  grief  and  solemn  mirth, 

The  shining  angels  climb. 

And  unto  everything 

That  lives  and  moves,  for  heaven,  on  earth, 
With  equal  share  of  grief  and  mirth, 
The  shining  angels  sing :  — 

••  Babes  new-born,  undefiled, 
In  lowly  hut,  or  mansion  wide  — 
Sleep  safely  through  this  Christmas-tide 
When  Jesus  was  a  child. 

"  O  young  men,  bold  and  free, 
In  peopled  town,  or  desert  grim, 
When  ye  are  tempted  like  to  Him, 
•  The  man  Christ  Jesus '  see. 


118  A   HYMN   FOR   CHRISTMAS  MORXIXG. 

"  Poor  mothers,  with  your  hoard 
Of  endless  love  and  countless  pain  — 
Remember  all  her  grief,  her  gain, 
The  Mother  of  the  Lord. 

"  Mourners,  half  blind  with  woe, 
Look  up!  One  standeth  in  this  place, 
And  by  the  pity  of  His  face 
The  Man  of  Sorrows  know. 

"  Wanderers  in  far  countrie, 

O  think  of  Him  who  came,  forgot. 

To  His  own,  and  they  received   Him  not' 

Jesus  of  Galilee. 

"  O  all  ye  who  have  trod 

The  wine-press  of  affliction,  lay 

Your  hearts  before  His  heart  this  day  — 

Behold  the   Christ  of  God  !  " 


A  PSALM  FOR  NEW  YEAR'S   EVE. 

1855. 

A  FRIEND  stands  at  the  door ; 

In  either  tight-closed  hand 

Hiding  rich  gifts,  three  hundred  and  three  score: 

Waiting  to  strew  them   daily  o'er  the  land 

Even  as  seed  the  sower. 

Each  drops  he,  treads  it  in  and  passes  by : 

It  cannot  be  made  fruitful  till  it  die. 

O  good  New  Year,  we  clasp 

This  warm  shut  hand  of  thine, 

Loosing  for  ever,  with  half  sigh,  half  gasp, 

That  which  from  ours  falls  like  dead  fingers'  twine  : 

Ay,  whether  fierce  its  grasp 

Has  been,  or  gentle,  having  been,  we  know 

That  it  was  blessed  :   let  the  Old  Year  go. 

0   New  Year,   teach  us  faith  ! 

The  road  of  life  is   hard  : 

When  our  feet  bleed  and  scourging  winds  us   scathe. 

Point  thou  to   Him   whose   visage   was  more  marr'd 


120  A   PSALM  FOR  NEW   YEAR'S  EVE. 

Than  any  man's:    who  saith 

"  Make   straight  paths  for  your  feet  "  —  and  to  the 

opprest  — 
"  Come  ye  to   Me,  and  I   will  give  you  rest." 

Yet  hang  some  lamp-like  hope 

Above  this  unknown   way, 

Kind  year,  to  give  our  spirits  freer  scope 

And  our  hands   strength  to   work   while  it   is  day. 

But  if  that  way  must  slope 

Tombward,  0  bring  before  our  fading  eyes 

The  lamp  of  life,  the  Hope  that  never  dies. 

Comfort  our  souls  with  love,  — 

Love  of  all  human  kind  ; 

Love  special,  close — in  which  like  shelter'd  dove 

Each  weary  heart  its  own  safe  nest  may  find  ; 

And  love  that  turns  above 

Adoringly  ;  contented  to  resign 

All  loves,  if  need  be,  for  the  Love  Divine. 

Friend,  come  tbou  like  a  friend, 

And  whether  bright  thy  face, 

Or  dim  with  clouds  we  cannot  comprehend,  — 

We'll  hold  out  patient  hands,  each  in  his  place, 

And  trust  thee  to  the  end. 

Knowing  thou  leadest  onwards  to  those  spheres 

Where  there  are  neither  days  nor  months  nor  years. 


FAITHFUL  IN  VANITY-FAIR. 

Suggested  by  one  of  David  Scott's  illustrations  of  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress." 

I.' 

THE  great  human  whirlpool  —  'tis  seething  and  seeth 
ing: 

On  !     No  time  for  shrieking  out  —  scarcely  for  breath 
ing : 

All  toiling  and  moiling,  some  feebler,  some  bolder. 

But  each  sees  a  fiend-face  grim  over  his  shoulder: 
Thus  merrily  live  they  in  Vanity-fair. 

The  great  human  caldron  —  it  boils  ever  higher: 
Some    drowning,  some    sinking  ;   while    some,  stealing 

nigher 

Athirst,  come  and  lean  o'er  its  outermost  verges, 
Or  touch,  as  a  child's  feet  touch,  timorous,  the  surges  — 
One    plunge  —  lo !    more  souls  swamp'd  in  Vanity- 
fair. 


122  FAITHFUL  IN   VANITY-FAIR. 

Let 's  live  while  we  live  ;  for  to-morrow  all 's  over : 
Drink  deep,  drunkard  bold;  and  kiss  close,  madden'd 

lover; 

Smile,  hypocrite,  smile  ;  it  is  no  such  hard  labour. 
While    each    stealthy    hand    stabs    the    heart    of    his 

neighbour  — 
Faugh  !     Fear  not  :  we  've  no  hearts  in  Vanity-fair. 

The  mad  crowd  divides  and  then  soon  closes  after  : 

Afar    towers    the    pyre.     Through    the    shouting    and 
laughter 

"What    new    sport    is    this?"  gasps    a    reveller,    half 
turning.  — 

"  One  Faithful,  meek  fool,  who    is    led    to    the    burn 
ing, 
He  cumber'd  us  sorely  in  Vanity-fair. 

"  A  dreamer,  who  held  every  man  for  a  brother ; 
A  coward,  who,  smit  on  one  cheek,  gave  the  other: 
A  fool,  whose  blind  soul  took  as  truth  all  our  Ivino- 

J         O" 

Too  simple  to  live,  so  best  fitted  for  dying  : 
Sure,  such  are  best  swept  out  of  Vanity-fair." 


FAITHFUL  IN   VANITY-FAIB.  123 


II. 

SILENCE  !    though  the  flames  arise  and  quiver  : 
Silence !    though  the   crowd  howls  on   for  ever  : 
Silence  !     Through  this   fiery  purgatory 
God  is  leading  up   a  soul  to  glory. 

See,   the  white  lips  with  no  moans  are  trembling, 
Hate  of  foes  or  plaint  of  friends'  dissembling; 
If  sighs  come  —  his  patient   prayers   outlive   them, 
"Lord — these  know  not  what  they  do.    Forgive  them!" 

Thirstier  still   the  roaring  flames  are  glowing ; 
Fainter  in  his  ear  the   laughter   growin^ ; 

o  o  o  * 

Brief  will  last  the   fierce   and  fiery  trial, 
Angel  welcomes  drown   the  earth  denial. 

Now  the  amorous   death-fires,  gleaming  ruddy, 
Clasp  him   close.     Down   drops  the   quivering  bod}', 
While  through  harmless  flames  ecstatic  flying 
Shoots   the  beauteous  soul.     This,  this  is    dying. 

Lo,   the  opening  sky  with  splendour  rifted, 
Lo,  the  palm-branch  for  his  hands  uplifted  : 
Lo,   the  immortal  chariot,   cloud-descending, 
And  its   legion'd  angels   close  attending. 


124  FAITHFUL   IN   VANITY-FAIR. 

Let  his  poor  dust  mingle  with  the  embers 
While  the  crowds   sweep   on  and  none  remembers 
Saints  unnumber'd  through  the   Infinite    Glory, 
Praising   God,   recount  the  martyr's  story. 


HER  LIKENESS. 

A  GIRL,  who  has  so  many  wilful  ways 

She  would   have   caused   Job's   patience    to  forsake 

him  ; 

Yet  is-  so  rich  in  all  that  's  girlhood's  praise. 
Did  Job  himself  upon  her  goodness  gaze, 

A  little  better  she  would  surely  make  him. 

Yet  is  this  girl  I  sing  in  nought  uncommon. 

And  very  far  from  angel  yet,  I  trow. 
Her  faults,  her  sweetnesses,  are  purely  human  ; 
Yet  she  's  more  lovable  as  simple  woman 

Than  any  one  diviner  that  I  know. 

Therefore  I  wish  that  she  may  safely  keep 
This  womanhede,  and  change  not,  only  grow  ; 

From  maid  to  matron,  youth  to  age,  may  creep. 

And  in  perennial  blessedness,  still  reap 

On  every  hand  of  that  which  she  doth  sow. 


ONLY  A  DREAM. 

"  I  waked  —  she  fled:  and  day  brought  back  my  night." 

METRO UGHT  I  saw   thee  yesternight 

Sit  by  me  in  the  olden  guise, 
The  white  robes   and  the  palin  foregone,  . 
Weaving  instead  of  amaranth  crown 

A  web  of  mortal  dyes. 

I  cried,   "  Where  hast  thou  been  so  long  ?  " 
(The  mild  eyes  turn'd  and  mutely  smiled  :  ) 

"  Why  dwellest  thou  in   far-off  lands  ? 

What  is  that  web  within  thy  hands  ?  " 
—  "I  work  for  thee,  my  child." 

1  clasp'd  thee  in  my  arms  and  wept ; 

I  kiss'd  thee  oft  with  passion  wild  : 
I  pour'd  fond  questions,  tender  blame ; 
Still  thy  sole  answer  was  the  same,  — 

"  I  work  for  thee,   my  child." 


ONLY   A   DREAM.  127 

"  Come  and  walk  with  me  as  of  old." 
Then  earnest  thou,  silent  as  before  ; 
We  pass'd  along  that  churchyard  way 
We  used  to  tread  each  Sabbath  day, 
Till  one  trod  earth  no  more. 

I  felt  thy  hand  upon  my  arm, 

Beside  me  thy  meek  face  I  saw, 
Yet  through  the  sweet  familiar  grace 
A  something  spiritual  could  trace 

That  left  a  nameless  awe. 

Trembling  I  said,  "  Long  years  have  pass'd 
Since  thou  wert  from  my  side  beguiled  ; 

Now  thou  'rt  return'd  and  all  shall  be 

As  was  before."  —  Half-pensively 

Thou  answered'st  —  "  Nay,  my  child." 

I  pleaded  sore :  "  Hadst  thou  forgot 

The  love  wherewith  we  loved  of  old, — 
The  long  sweet  days  of  converse  blest. 
The  nights  of  slumber  on  thy  breast, — 
Wert  thou  to  me  grown  cold  ? " 

There  beam'd  on  me  those  eyes  of  heaven 

That  wept  no  more,  but  ever  smiled ; 
"Love  only  is  love  in  that  Home 


128  ONLY   A    DREAM. 

Where  I  abide  —  where,  till  thou   come, 
I  work   for  thee,  my  child." 

If  from   my  sight  thou   passedst  then, 

Or  if  my  sobs  the  dream  exiled, 
I   know  not:  but  in  memory  clear 
I  seem  these  strange  words  still  to  hear, 
"  /  work  for  thee,  my  child" 


TO  MY   GODCHILD   ALICE. 

ALICE,  Alice,  little  Alice, 
My  new-cbristen'd  baby  Alice, 

Can  there  ever  rhymes  be  found 
To  express  my  wishes  for  thee 
In  a  silvery  flowing,   worthy 

Of  that  silvery  sound? 
Bonnie  Alice,  Lady  Alice, 

Sure,  this  sweetest  name   must  be 
A  true  omen  to   thee,  Alice, 

Of  a  life's   long  melody. 

Alice,   Alice,  little  Alice, 

Mayst  thou  prove  a  golden   chalice, 

Fill'd  with  holiness  like  wine : 
With  rich  blessings  running  o'er 
Yet  replenish'd  evermore 

From  a   fount  divine  : 
Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, 

When  this  future  comes  to   thee, 


130  TO   MY    GODCHILD   ALICE. 

In   thy  young  life's   brimming  chalice 
Keep   some  drops  of  balm   for  me ! 

Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, 

Mayst  thou  grow   a  goodly  palace, 

Fitly  framed  from  roof  to  floors, 
Pure   unto  the  inmost  centre, 
While  high   thoughts  like  angels  enter 

At  the  open  doors  : 
Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, 

When  this  beauteous  sight  I   see, 
In   thy  woman-heart's  wide  palace 

Keep  one  nook  of  love  for  me. 

Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice,  — 

Sure  the  verse   halts  out  of  malice 

To  the  thoughts  it  feebly  bears, 
And   thy   name's  soft   echoes,  ranging 
From  quaint  rhyme   to  rhyme,  are  changing 

Into   silent  •  prayers. 
God  be   with  thee,  little  Alice, 

Of  His  bounteousness  may   He 
Fill  the  chalice,  build  the  palace. 

Here,  unto  eternity ! 


EIGHTEEN   SONNETS. 


RESIGNING. 

"  Poor  heart,  what  bitter  words  we  speak 
When   God  speaks  of  resigning  !  " 

CHILDREN,   that   lay  their  pretty  garlands  by 

So   piteously,  yet  with  a  humble  mind ; 

Sailors,  who,  when  their   ship  rocks  in   the  wind, 

Cast  out  her  freight  with   half-averted   eye, 

Riches  for  life  exchanging  solemnly, 

Lest  they  should  never  gain  the  wish'd-for  shore  ;  — 

Thus   we,  O   Father,   standing  Thee   before, 

Do   lay  down   at   Thy  feet  without  a  sigh 

Each  after  each  our  precious   things   and   rare, 

Our  dear  heart-jewels  and  our  garlands  fair. 

Perhaps  Thou  knewest  that  the  flowers  would  die, 

And  the  long-voyaged  hoards  be  found  but  dust : 

So  took'st  them,  while  unchanged.     To  Thee  we  trust 

For  incorruptible  treasure :    Thou  art  just. 


SAINT  ELIZABETH   OF   BOHEMIA. 

Would  that  we  two  were  lying 

Beneath  the  churchyard  sod, 
With  our  limbs  at  rest  in  the  green  earth's  breast, 

And  our  souls  at  home  with  God. 

KINGSLET;S  Sainfa   Tragedy. 

I. 

I  NEVER  lay  me  down  to  sleep  at   night 

But  in  my  heart  I  sing  that  little   song : 

The  angels  hear  it  as,  a  pitying  throng, 

They  touch  my  burning  lids  with  fingers  bright 

As  moonbeams,  pale,  impalpable,  and  light  : 

And  when  my  daily  pious  tasks  are  done. 

And  all  my  patient  prayers  said  one   by  one, 

God  hears  it.     Seems  it  sinful  in   His  sight 

That  round  my  slow  burnt-offering  of  quench'd    will 

One   quivering  human   sigh   creeps  wind-like   still  ? 

That  when  my   orisons   celestial  fail 

Rises  one  note  of  natural  human   wail  ? 

Dear  lord,  spouse,  hero,  martyr,  saint!    ere  long, 

I  trust,   God  will  forgive  my  singing  that  poor  song. 


SAINT  ELIZABETH   OF    BOHEMIA.  133 


II. 


A  YEAR  ago  I  bade  my  little  son 
Bear  upon  pilgrimage  a  heavy  load 
Of  alms  ;    he   cried,  half-fainting  on  the  road, 
"  Mother,  oh  mother,  would  the  day  were  done  ! " 
Him  I  reproved  with  tears,  and  said  "  Go  on  ! 
Nor  pause  nor  murmur  till  thy  task  be  o'er."  — 
Would  not  God  say  to  me  the   same,  and   more  ? 
I  will  not  sing  that  song.     Thou,   clearest  one, 
Husband  —  no,  brother  !  —  stretch  thy   stedfast  hand 
And  let   mine  grasp  it.     Now,   I  also   stand, 
My  woman  weakness   nerved  to   strength   like  thine ; 
We  '11  quaff  life's    aloe-cup   as   if  't  were  wine 
Each  to  the  other ;  journeying  on  apart, 
Till  at  heaven's  golden   doors   we   two  leap  heart  to 
heart. 


A    MARRIAGE-TABLE. 

W.  H.  L.  and  F.  R. 

THERE  was  a  marriage-table  where  One  sate, 

Haply,   unnoticed,  till  they  craved  His  aid  : 

Thenceforward  does  it  seem  that  He  has  made 

All  virtuous  marriage-tables  consecrate  : 

And  so,  at  this,  where  without  pomp  or  state 

We  sit,  and  only  say,  or  mute,  are  fain 

To  wish  the  simple  words  "  God  bless  these  twain ! 

I  think  that  He  who  "  in  the  midst "  doth  wait 

Oft-times,  would  not  abjure  our  prayerful  cheer, 

But,  as  at  Cana,  list  with  gracious  ear 

To  us,  beseeching,  that  the   Love   divine 

May  ever  at   their  household  table  sit, 

Make   all   His   servants  who  encompass   it, 

And  change  life's  bitterest  waters  into  wine. 


MICHAEL   THE   ARCHANGEL. 

A   Statuette. 
I. 

MY  white   archangel,  with  thy  stedfast  eyes 

Beholding  all  this  empty  ghost-fill'd   room. 

Thy  clasp'd  hands  resting  on   the  sword  of  doom. 

Thy  firm,  close  lips,  not  made  for  human    sighs 

Or  smiles,  or  kisses   sweet,   or   bitter   cries, 

But   for  divine  exhorting,  holy  song 

And  righteous   counsel,  bold   from   seraph   tongue. 

Beautiful  angel,  strong  as  thou   art  wise. 

Would  that  the  sight  of  thee  made  wise  and  strong 

Would  that  this  sheathed  sword  of  thine,  which  lies 

Stonily   idle,  could  gleam  out   among 

The   spiritual  hosts  of  enemies 

That    tempting    shriek  — "  Requite    thou    wrong   witl 

wrong." 
Lama  Sabaehthani  —  How  long,  how   long. 


136.  MICHAEL   THE   ARCHANGEL. 


II. 


MICHAEL,  the  leader  of  the  hosts  of  God, 

Who   warr'd   with    Satan  for  the  body  of  him 

Whom,  living,   God  had  loved  —  If  cherubim 

With  cherubim   contended  for  one    clod 

Of  human   dust,   for  forty  years   that  trod 

The  gloomy  desert  of  heaven's  chastisement, 

Are  there  not  ministering  angels  sent 

To  battle  with   the  devils  that  roam  abroad, 

Clutching  our  living  souls  ?     "  The  living,  still 

The   living,    they    shall    praise    Thee !  "  —  Let    some 

great 

Invisible  spirit  enter  in  and  fill 
The   howling  chambers   of  hearts  desolate ; 
With  looks  like  thine,   O  Michael,  strong  and   wise, 
My  white   archangel  with  the   stedfast  eyes. 


I. 

BEATRICE   TO   DANTE. 

i;  Guardami  ben.     Ben  son,  ben  son."  * 

REGARD  me  well :    I  am  thy  love,  thy  love ; 
Thy  blessing,  thy  delight,  thy  hope,  thy  peace  : 
Thy  joy  above  all  joys  that  break  and  cease 
When  their  full   waves  in   widest   circles  move : 
Thy  bird  of  comfort,  thine  eternal  dove, 
Whom  thou  did  send  out  of  thy   mournful  breast 
To  flutter  back  and  point   thee  to   thy  rest : 
Thine  angel,  who  forgets  her  crown  star-wove 
To  come  to  thee  with    folded   woman-hands 
Pleading  — "  Look  on   me,   Beatrice,  who  stands 
Before  thee  ;    by  the   Triune    Light   divine 
Undazzled,  still  beholds   thy  human   face, 
And  is   more  happy  in  this   happy  place 
That  thou  alone    art  hers  and  she  is  thine." 

*  Suggested  by  a  statue  of  Beatrice,  bearing  this  motto. 


138  DANTE  TO  BEATRICE. 

II. 
DANTE    TO   BEATRICE. 

I  SEE  thee,  gliding  towards  me    with   slow  pace 

Across  the   azure   fields    of  Paradise, 

Where  thine  each  footstep   makes  a  star  arise. 

So  from  this  heart's  once  void   but  infinite  space 

Each  strange  sweet   touch  of  thy   celestial   grace 

In   the  old  mortal  life,  struck  out  some   spark 

To  light  the   world,  though  all  my  heaven  lay  dark. 

0  Beatrice,  cypresses  enlace 

My  laurels :    none    have  grown   save   tear-bedew'd 

Salt  tears   that    sank    into  the  earth  unview'd, 
And   sprang  up   green  to   form    a   crown  of  bays. 
Take  it !     At  thy  dear  feet  I  lay   my  all, 
What  men  my  honours,   virtues,  glories,  call: 

1  lived,  loved,  suffer'd,  sung  —  for  thy  sole  praise. 


A    QUESTION.      . 

I. 

SOUL,  spirit,  genius  —  which  them  art  —  that   whence 

I  know  not,  rose  upon  this  mortal  frame 

Like  the  sun  o'er  the  mountains,  all  aflame. 

Seen  large  through  mists  of  childish  innocence, 

And  year  by  year  with  me  uptravelling  thence. 

As  hour  by  hour  the  day-star,  madest  aspire 

My  nature,  interpenetrate  with  fire 

It  felt  but  understood  not  —  strong,  intense, 

Wisdom  with  folly  mix'd,  and  gold  with  clay ;  — 

Soul,  thou  hast  journey'd  with  me  all  this  way. 

Oft  hidden  and  o'erclouded,  oft  array'd 

In  scorching  splendours  that  my  earth-life  burn'd, 

Yet  ever  unto  thee  my  true  life  turn'd, 

For,  dim  or  clear,  't  was  thou  my  day-light  made. 


II. 


SOUL,  dwelling  oft  in   God's  infinitude, 
And  sometimes  seeming  no  more  part  of  me 


1  W  A   QUESTION. 

Tliis  me,  worms'  heritage  —  than  that  sun  can  be 
Part  of  the  earth  he  has  with  warmth  imbued,  — 
Whence    earnest    thou  ?    whither  goest    thou  ?    I,   sub 
dued 

With  awe  of  mine  own  being  —  thus  sit  still, 
Dumb,  on  the  summit  of  this  lonely  hill, 
Whose  dry  November-grasses  dew-bestrewed 
Mirror  a  million  suns  —  That  sun,  so  bright, 
Passes,  as  thou  must  pass,  Soul,  into  night: 
Art  thou  afraid,  who  solitary  hast  trod 
A  path  I  know  not,  from  a  source  to  a  bourne, 
lioth  which  I  know  not  ?    fear'st  thou  to  return 
Alone,  even  as  thou  earnest,  alone,  to  God  ? 


ANGEL    FACES. 


'  And  with   the  dawn  those  .angel  faces   smile 
That  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. M 


I  SHALL  not  paint  them.      God  them  sees,  and   I: 
No  other  can,  nor  need.     They  have  no  form. 
I  may  not  close  with  human  kisses  warm 
Their  eyes  which  shine  afar  or  from  on  high. 
But  never  will  shine  nearer  till  I  die. 
How  long,  how  long !     See,  I  am  growing  old  ; 
I  have  quite  ceased  to  note  in  my  hair's  fold 
The  silver  threads  that  there  in  ambush  lie  ; 
Some  angel  faces  bent  from  heaven  would  pine 
To  trace  the  sharp  lines  graven  upon  mine  ; 
What  matter?   in  the  wrinkles  plough'd  by  care 
Let  age  tread  after,  sowing  immortal  seeds  ; 
All  this  life's  harvest  yielded,  wheat  or  weeds, 
Is  reap'd,  methinks  :    at  last  my  little  field  lies  hare 


142  ANGEL   FACES. 


II. 


BUT   in   the   night   time,   'twixt   it  and   the   stars, 

The  angel   faces   still   come  glimmering  by ; 

No  death-pale   shadow,  no  averted   eye 

Marking   the  inevitable  doom   that  bars 

Me   from  them.     Not  a  cloud   their   aspect  mars ; 

And    my   sick    spirit   walks   with   them   hand   in   hand 

By  the   cool   waters   of  a  pleasant   land  : 

Sings   with   them  o'er  again,  without   its  jars, 

The  psalm  of  life,  that  ceased  as  one  by  one 

Their  voices  dropping  off,  left  mine   alone 

With  dull   monotonous   wail  to  grieve   the   air, — 

0  solitary  love,   that  art  so  strong, 

1  think   God   will  have  pity  on  thee  ere   long, 
And  take  thee  where    thou  'It  find   those   angel  faces 

fair. 


SUNDAY  MORNING  BELLS. 

FROM  the   near  city  comes  the  clang  of  bells : 

Their  hundred  jarring  diverse  tones  combine 

In   one  faint  misty  harmony,  as   fine 

As  the  soft  note  yon   winter  robin   swells.  — 

What  if  to  Thee  in   Thine  Infinity 

These  multiform  and  many-colourd  creeds 

Seem  but  the  robe  man  wraps  as  masquers'  weeds 

Round  the  one  living  truth  Thou  givest  him  — Thee? 

What  if  these   varied  forms   that   worship   prove, 

Being  heart-worship,  reach   Thy  perfect  ear 

But  as  a  monotone,  complete  and  clear, 

Of  which  the  music  is,  through  Christ's  name,  Love  ? 

For  ever  rising  in  sublime  increase 

To  "  Glory  in   the   Highest  —  on  earth  peace  ? " 


CCEUR    DE    LION: 

Marochetti's  Statue  in  the  Great  Exhibition  of  1851. 


RICHARD    THE   LION-HEARTED,  crown'd   serene 
With   the   true   royalty  of  perfect   man  ; 
Seated  in  stone   above   the  praise   or  ban 
Of  these   mix'd  crowds   who  come  and  gaping  lean 
As  if  to   see  what  the  word   "  king "  might  mean 
In  those  old  times.     Behold  !    what  need  that  rim 
Of  crown  'gainst  this   blue  sky,  to  signal  him 
A  monarch,  of  the  monarchs  that  have  been 
And,  perhaps,  are  not  ?  —  Read  his  destinies 
In   the  full  brow  o'er-arching  kingly  eyes, 
In  the  strong  hands,   grasping  both  rein   and   : 
In  the  close  mouth,  so  sternly  beautiful :  — 
Surely,  a  man  who   his  own   spirit  can  rule  ; 
Lord  of  himself,   therefore  his  brethren's  lord. 


CCEUR   DE   LION,  145 


II. 


"  0  Richard,    0  mon  roi"     So  minstrels  sigh'd. 

The   many-centuried  voice  dies  fast  away 

Amidst  the  turmoil  of  our  modern   clay. 

How  know  we  but  these  green-wreath'd  legends   hide 

An   ugly  truth  that  never  could  abide 

In  this  our  living  world's   far  purer  air?  — 

Nevertheless,  O  statue,  rest  thou   there, 

Our   Richard,  of  all  chivalry  the  pride; 

Or  if  not  the  true   Richard,  still  a  type 

Of  the  old  regal  glory,  fallen,   o'er-ripe, 

And  giving  place  to  better  blossoming : 

Stand  —  imaging  the  grand  heroic  days  ; 

And  let  our  little  children  come  and  gaze, 

Whispering  with  innocent  awe  —  "This  was  a  Kino-." 


10 


GUNS   OF  PEACE. 

Sunday  Night,  March  30th,  1856. 

GHOSTS  of  dead  soldiers  in  the  battle  slain, 
Ghosts  of  dead  heroes  dying  nobler  far 
In  the  long  patience  of  inglorious  war, 
Of  famine,  cold,  heat,  pestilence,  and  pain, — 
All  ye  whose  loss  makes  our  victorious  gain  — 
This  quiet  night,  as  sounds  the  cannon's  tongue, 
Do  ye  look  down  the  trembling  stars  among 
Viewing  our  peace  and  war  with  like  disdain? 
Or  wiser  grown  since  reaching  those  new  spheres, 
Smile  ye  on  those  poor  bones  ye  sow'd  as  seed 
For  this  our  harvest,  nor  regret  the  deed  ?  — 
Yet  lift  one  cry  with  us  to  Heavenly  ears  — 
"  Strike  with  Thy  bolt  the  next  red  flag  unfuiTd, 
And  make  all  wars  to  cease  throughout  the  world.' 


DAVID'S   CHILD. 

—  »  Is  the  child  dead?  "  —  And  they  said,  "  He  is  dead." 

IN  face  of  a  great  sorrow  like  to  death 

How  do  we  wrestle  night  and  day  with  tears  ; 

How  do  we  fast  and  pray  ;  how  small  appears 

The  outside  world,  while,  hanging  on  some  breath 

Of  fragile  hope,  the  chamber  where  we  lie 

Includes  all  space.  —  But  if  sudden  at  last 

The  blow  falls ;    or  by  incredulity 

Fond  led,  we  —  never  having  one  thought  cast 

Towards   years  where   "  the   child "  was   not  —  see  it 

die, 

And  with  it  all  our  future,  all  our  past, — 
We  just  look  round  us  with  a  dull  surprise : 
For  lesser  pangs  we  had  fill'd  earth  with  cries 
Of  wild  and  angry  grief  that  would  be  heard  :  — 
But  when  the  heart  is  broken  —  not  a  word. 


A    WORD  IN   SEASON. 

"Tnis  Ls  a  day  the  Lord  hath  made." --Thus  spake 
The  good  religious  heart,  unstain'd,  unworn, 
Watching  the  golden  glory  of  the  morn. — 
Since,  on  each  happy  day  that  came  to  break 
Like  sunlight  o'er  this  silent  life  of  mine, 
Yea,  on  each  beauteous  morning  I  saw  shine, 
I  have  remember'd  these  your  words,  rejoiced 
And  been  glad  in  it.     So,  o'er  many-voiced 
Tumultuous  harmonies  of  tropic  seas, 
Which  chant  an  everlasting  farewell  grand 
Between  ourselves  and  you  and  the  old  land, 
Receive  this  token  :  many  words  chance-sown 
May  oftentimes  have  taken  root  and  grown, 
To  bear  good  fruit  perennially,  like  these. 


THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE  SNOW. 

BARE  and  sunshiny,  bright  and  bleak, 
Rounded  cold  as  a  dead  maid's  cheek, 
Folded  white  as  a  sinner's  shroud, 
Or  wandering  angel's  robes  of  cloud.  — 

Well  I  know,  well  I  know 
Over  the  fields  the  path  through  the  snow. 

Narrow  and  rough  it  lies  between 

Wastes  where  the  wind  sweeps,  biting  keen  : 

Every  step  of  the  slippery  road 

Marks  where  some  weary  foot  has  trod  ; 

Who  '11  go,  who  '11  go 
After  the  rest  on  the  path  through  the  snow  ? 

They  who  would  tread  it  must  walk  alone, 
Silent  and  stedfast  —  one  by  one  : 
Dearest  to  dearest  can  only  say, 
"•  My  heart !  I  '11  follow  thee  all  the  way, 

As  we  go,  as  we  go, 
Each,  after  each  on  this  path  through  the  snow." 


150      THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE  SNOW. 

It  may  be  under  that  western  haze 
Lurks  the  omen  of  brighter  days ; 
That  each  sentinel  tree  is  quivering 
Deep  at  its  core  with  the  sap  of  spring, 

And  while  we  go,  while  we  go, 
Green  grass-blades  pierce  through  the  glittering  snow. 

It  may  be  the  unknown  path  will  tend 
Never  to  any  earthly  end, 
Die  with  the  dying  day  obscure, 
And  never  lead  to  a  human  door : 
That  none  know  who  did  go 
Patiently  once  on  this  path  through  the  snow. 

No  matter,  no  matter !  the  path  shines  plain  ; 
These  pure  snow-crystals  will  deaden  pain  ; 
Above,  like  stars  in  the  deep  blue  dark, 
Eyes  that  love  us  look  down  and  mark. 

Let  us  go,  let  us  go. 
Whither  heaven  leads  in  the  path  through  the  snow, 


THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE  CORN. 

WAVY  and  bright  in  the  summer  air, 
Like  a  pleasant  sea  when  the  wind  blows  fair, 
And  its  roughest  breath  has  scarcely  curled 
The  green  highway  to  a  distant  world,  — 
Soft  whispers  passing  from  shore  to  shore, 
As  from  hearts  content,  yet  desiring  more  — 

Who  feels  forlorn, 
Wandering  thus  down  the  path  through  the  corn  ? 

A  short  space  since,  arid  the  dead  leaves  lay 

Mouldering  under  the  hedgerow  grey, 

Nor  hum  of  insect,  nor  voice  of  bird, 

O'er  the  desolate  field  was  ever  heard  ; 

Only  at  eve  the  pallid  snow 

Blushed  rose-red  in  the  red  sun-glow  ; 

Till,  one  blest  morn, 
Shot  up  into  life  the  young  green  corn. 

Small  and  feeble,  slender  and  pale, 
It  bent  its  head  to  the  winter  gale, 


Kr2      THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE  CORN. 

Hearkened  the  wren's  soft  note  of  cheer, 
Hardly  believing  spring  was  near: 
Saw  chestnuts  bud  out  and  campions  blow, 
And  daisies  mimic  the  vanished  snow 

Where  it  was  born, 
On  either  side  of  the  path  through  the  corn. 

The  corn,  the  corn,  the  beautiful  corn, 
Rising  wonderful,  morn  by  morn  : 
First,  scarce  as  high  as  a  fairy's  wand, 
Then,  just  in  reach  of  a  child's  wee  hand  ; 
Then  growing,  growing,  tall,  brave,  and  strong  : 
With  the  voice  of  new  harvests  in  its  song; 

While  in  fond  scorn 
The  lark  out-carols  the  whispering  corn. 

A  strange,  sweet  path,  formed  day  by  day, 

How,  when,  and  wherefore,  we  cannot  say, 

No  more  than  of  our  life-paths  we  know, 

Whither  they  lead  us,  why  we  go  ; 

Or  whether  our  eyes  shall  ever  see 

The  wheat  in  the  ear  or  the  fruit  on  the  tree  ; 

Yet,  who  's  forlorn  ?  — 
He  who  watered  the  furrows  can  ripen  the  corn. 


THE   GOOD   OF  IT. 

A  Cynic's  Song. 

SOME  men  strut  proudly,  all  purple  and  gold, 

Hiding  queer  deeds  'neath  a  cloak  of  good  fame ; 

I  creep  along,  braving  hunger  and  cold, 

To  keep  my  heart  stainless  as  well  as  my  name ; 
So,  so,  where  is  the  good  of  it  ? 

Some  clothe  bare  Truth  in  fine  garments  of  words, 
Fetter  her  free  limbs  with  cumbersome  state : 

With  me,  let  me  sit  at  the  lordliest  boards, 

"  I  love  "  means  /  love,  and  "  I  hate  "  means  /  hate, 
But,  but,  where  is  the  good  of  it? 

Some  have  rich  dainties  and  costly  attire, 

Guests  fluttering  round  them  and  duns  at  the  door : 

I  crouch  alone  at  my  plain  board  and  fire, 

Enjoy  what  I  pay  for  and  scorn  to  have  more. 
Yet,  yet,  where  is  the  good  of  it  ? 


154  THE   GOOD   OF  IT. 

Some  gather  round  them  a  phalanx  of  friends, 

Scattering  affection  like  coin  in  a  crowd  ; 
I  keep  my  heart  for  the  few  that  heaven  sends, 

Where  they'll  find  their  names  writ  when  I  lie  in 

my  shroud. 
Still,  still,  where  is  the  good  of  it? 

Some  toy  with  love,  lightly  come,  lightly  go. 

A  blithe  game  at  hearts,  little  worth,  little  cost :  — 
I  staked  my  whole  soul  on  one  desperate  throw, 
A   life  'gainst   an    hour's    sport.     We   played;    and 

I  —  lost. 
Ha,  ha,  such  was  the  good  of  it ! 


MORAL:  ADDED  ON  HIS  DEATH-BED. 

TURN  the    Past's  mirror   backward.     Its    shadows  re 
moved, 

The  dim  confused  mass  becomes  softened,  sublime  : 
I    have    worked  —  I    have   felt  —  I   have    lived  —  I 

have  loved, 
And    each    was    a    step    towards    the    goal    I    now 

climb : 
Thou,  God,  Thou  sawest  the  good  of  it. 


MINE. 

For  a  German  Air. 

O  HOW  my  heart  is   beating  as  her   name    I   keep 

repeating, 

And  I  drink  up  joy  like  wine: 
O   how   my  heart  is   beating    as  her   name   I   keep 

repeating, 

For  the  lovely  girl  is  mine  ! 
She  's  rich,  she  's  fair,  beyond  compare, 
Of  noble  mind,  serene  and  kind  — 
And   how  my  heart  is  beating  as  her   name  I  keep 

repeating, 
For  the  lovely  girl  is  mine ! 

O    how   my  heart   is   beating   as   her   name   I   keep 

repeating, 

In  a  music  soft  and  fine  ; 
O   how   my  heart   is   beating   as   her   name   I   keep 

repeating, 
For  the  girl  I  love  is  mine. 


She  owns  no  lands,  has  no  white  hands, 

Her  lot  is  poor,  her  life  obscure  ; 

Yet  how  my  heart   is  beating   as    her   name    I   keep 

repeating, 
For  the  girl  I  love  is  mine! 


A   GHOST  AT   THE   DANCING. 

A  WIND-SWEPT  tulip-bed  —  a  colour'd  cloud 
Of  butterflies  careering  in  the  air  — 
A  many-figured  arras  stirred  to  life, 
And  merry  unto  midnight  music  dumb  — 
So  the  dance  whirls.     Do  any  think  of  thee, 
Amiel,  Amiel  ? 

Friends  greet  each  other  —  countless  rills  of  talk 
Meander  round,  scattering  a  spray  of  smiles. 
Surely  —  the  news  was  false.     One  minute  more, 
And  thou  wilt  stand  here,  tall  and  quiet-eyed. 
Shaksperian  beauty  in  thy  pensive  face, 
Amiel.  Amiel. 

Many  here  knew  and  loved  thee  —  I  nor  loved. 
Scarce  knew  —  yet  in  thy  place  a  shadow  glides. 
And  a  face  shapes  itself  from  empty  air, 
Watching  the  dancers,  grave  and  quiet-eyed  — 


158  A   GHOST   AT   THE    DANCING. 

Eyes  that  now  see  the  angels  evermore, 
Amiel,  Amiel. 

On  just  such   night  as   this,  'midst  dance  and  song, 

I  bade  thee  carelessly  a  light  good-bye  — 

"  Good-bye  "  —  saidst     thou  ;     "  A      happy     journey 

home ! " 

Was  the  unseen  death-angel  at  thy  side, 
Mocking  those   words  —  "  A  happy  journey  home" 
Amiel,   Amiel  ? 

Ay,  we  play  fool's  play  still  ;   thou  hast  gone  home. 
"While    these    dance    here,    a    mile    hence    o'er    thy 

grave 
Drifts    the   deep    New    Year    snow.      The    wondrous 

gate 

We  spoke  of,  thou  hast  enter'd  ;  I   without 
Grope  ignorant  still  —  thou  dost  its  secrets  know, 
Amiel,  Amiel. 

What  if,  thus  sitting  where  we  sat  last  year, 
Thou    earnest,   took'st  up   our  broken  thread  of  talk. 
And  told'st  of  that  new   Home,  which  far  I  view, 
As  children,  wandering  on  through  wintry  fields, 
Mark  on  the  hill  the  father's   window  shine, 
Amiel,  Amiel  ? 


A    GHOST   AT   THE    DANCING.  159 

No.     We   shall  see  thy  pleasant  face  no  more  ; 
Thy  words  on  earth  are  ended.     Yet  thou  livest; 
'T  is   we  who  die.  —  I  too,  one  day  shall  come, 
And,  unseen,   watch   these  shadows,  quiet-eyed  — 
Then  flit  back   to  thy  land,  the  living  land, 
Amiel,  Amiel. 


MY  CHRISTIAN  NAME. 

MY  Christian  name,  my  Christian  name, 

I  never  hear  it  now  : 
None  have  the  right  to  utter  it, 

'T  is  lost,  I  scarce    know  how. 
My  worldly  name  the  world  speaks  loud 

Thank  God  for  well-earned  fame ! 
But  silence  sits  at  my  cold  hearth,— 

I  have  no  household  name. 

My  Christian  name,  my  Christian  name, 

It  has  an  uncouth  sound  ; 
My  mother  chose  it  out  of  those 

In  Bible  pages  found : 
Mother,  whose  accents  made  half  sweet 

What  else  I  held  in  shame, 
Dost  thou  remember  up  in  heaven 

My  poor  lost  Christian  name  ? 

Brothers  and  sisters,  mockers  oft 
Of  the  quaint  name  I  bore, 


MY   CHRISTIAN    NAME.  161 

Would  I  could  leap  back  years,  to  hear 

Ye  shout  it  out  once  more  ! 
One  speaks  it  still,  in  written  lines, 

The  last  fraternal  claim  : 
But  the  wide  seas  between  us  drown 

Its  sound  —  my  Christian  name. 

I  had  a  long  dream  once.     Her  voice 

Might  breathe    the  homely  word, 
And  make  it  music  —  as  love  makes 

Any  name,   said  or  heard. 
O,  dumb,  dumb  lips  !  —  O,   silent  heart ! 

Though  it  is  no  one's  blame  : 
Now  while  I  live  I  '11  never  hear 

Her  speak  my    Christian  name. 

God  send  her  bliss,  and  send   me   rest ! 

If  her  white  footsteps   calm 
Should  track  my  bleeding  feet,    God   make 

To  them   each   blood-drop   balm  ! 
Peace  —  peace.      0  mother,  put  thou  forth 

Thine  elder  holier  claim, 
And   the  first   word   I   hear  in   heaven 

May   be  my   Christian    name. 

11 


A  DEAD  BABY. 

LITTLE  soul,  for  such  brief  space  that   entered 
In   this   little  body   straight  and   chilly. 

Little   life  that  fluttered  and  departed, 
Like   a  moth  from  an   unopened  lily, 

Little  being,  without  name  or  nation, 

Where   is  now  thy  place  among  creation? 

Little  dark-lashed  eyes,   unclosed  never, 

Little  mouth,  by  earthly  food  ne'er  tainted, 

Little  breast,  that  just  once  heaved,  and   settled 
In   eternal  slumber,   white  and  sainted,  — 

Child,   shall  I  in  future   children's  faces 

See  some   pretty  look   that  thine   re-traces? 

Is   this   thrill  that  strikes  across  my  heart-strings 
And  in  dew  beneath  my  eyelid  gathers, 

Token  of  the  bliss  thou  mightst  have  brought  me, 
Dawning  of  the  love  they  call  a  father's  ? 

Do   I  hear  through   this   still  room   a   sighing 

Like  thy  spirit  to  me  its  author  crying? 


A   DEAD    BABY.  163 

Whence  didst  come  and  whither  take   thy  journey, 
Little  soul,  of  me   and  mine   created? 

Must  thou  lose   us,  and  we  thee,  for  ever, 
O   strange  life,  by  minutes  only  dated? 

Or  new  flesh  assuming,  just  to  prove  us, 

'In  some  other  babe  return  and  love  us? 

Idle  questions  all :  yet  our  beginning 

Like  our  ending,   rests  with  the  Life-sender, 

With  whom  nought  is  lost,  and  nought  spent  vainly  : 
Unto  Him  this  little  one  I  render. 

Hide  the  face  —  the  tiny  coffin  cover : 

So,  our  first  dream,  our  first  hope  —  is  over. 


FOR  MUSIC. 

ALONG  the   shore,  along  the  shore 

I   see  the  wavelets  meeting: 
But  thee  I  see  —  ah,  never  more, 

For  all  my  wild   heart's  beating. 
The   little   wavelets  come  and  go, 
The  tide  of  life  ebbs  to  and  fro, 

Advancing   and   retreating : 
But  from  the  shore,  the   stedfast  shore, 

The   sea  is  parted  never : 
And  mine  I   hold  thee  evermore, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Along  the  shore,  along  the  shore, 
I  hear  the  waves  resounding, 

But  thou   wilt   cross  them  never  more 
For  all  my  wild  heart's  bounding  : 

The  moon  comes  out  above  the  tide 

And  quiets   all  the   billows   wide 
Her  pathway  bright  surrounding : 


FOR  MUSIC.  165 

Thus  on  the   shore,   the   dreary  shore, 

I  walk   with  weak  endeavour ; 
I  have  thy  love's  light  evermore, 

For  ever  and   for  ever. 


THE   CANARY  IN  HIS   CAGE. 

SING  away,  ay,   sing  away, 

Merry  little  bird, 
Always  gayest  of  the  gay, 
Though  a  woodland  roundelay 

You  ne'er  sung   nor  heard  ; 
Though  your  life  from  youth  to  age 
Passes  in   a  narrow  cage. 

Near  the  window  wild  birds  fly, 

Trees  are  waving  round : 
Fair  things  everywhere  you  spy 
Through  the   glass  pane's  mystery, 

Your  small  life's  small  bound: 
Nothing  hinders  your  desire 
But  a  little  gilded  wire. 

Like  a  human  soul  you  seem 

Shut  in  golden  bars : 
Placed  amidst  earth's   sunshine-stream, 
Singing  to  the  morning  beam, 


THE   CANARY  IN  HIS   CAGE. 

Dreaming  'neath  the  stars  ; 
Seeing  all  life's  pleasures   clear,  - 
But  they  never  can  come  near. 

Never!     Sing,  bird-poet  mine, 

As  most  poets  do;  — 
Guessing  by  an  instinct  fine 
At  some  happiness  divine 

Which  they  never  knew. 
Lonely  in  a   prison  bright 
Hymning  for  the  world's   delight. 

Yet,  my  birdie,  you  're   content 

In  your  tiny   cage : 
Not  a  carol  thence   is  sent 
But  for  happiness  is  meant - 

Wisdom  pure   as   sage : 
Teaching,  the  true  poet's   part 
Is  to   sing  with  merry  heart. 

So,  lie  down  thou   peevish  pen, 
Eyes,  shake  off  all  tears ; 

And  my  wee  bird,   sing  again  : 

I  '11  translate  your  song  to   men 
In  these   future   years. 

44  Howsoe'er  thy  lot 's  assign'd. 

Bear  it  with  a  cheerful  mind." 


CONSTANCY  IN  INCONSTANCY. 

AX   OLD   MAN'S   CONFESSION. 

SHE  has  a  large  still  heart  —  this  lady  of  mine, 

(Not  mine,  i'  faith !  nor  would  I  that  she  were :) 

She  walks  this  world  of  ours  like  Grecian  nymph, 

Pure  with  a  marble  pureness,  moving  on 

Among  the  herd  of  men,  environ'd  round 

With  native  airs  of  deep  Olympian  calm. 

I  have  a  great  love  for  that  lady  of  mine : 

I  like  to  watch  her  motions,  trick  of  face, 

And  turn  of  thought,  when  speaking  high  and  wise 

The  tongue  of  gods,  not  men.     Ay,  every  day, 

And  twenty  times  a  day,  I  start  to  catch 

Some  look  or  gesture  of  familiar  mould, 

And  then  my  panting  soul  leans  forth  to  her 

Like  some  sick  traveller  who  astonied  sees 

Gliding  across  the  distant  twilight  fields  — 

His  lovely,  lost,  beloved  memory-fields  — 

The  shadowy  people  of  an  earlier  world. 


CONSTANCY  IN  INCONSTANCY.       169 

I  have  a  friend,  how  dearly  liked,  heart-warm, 

Did  I  confess,  sure  she  and  all  would  smile: 

I  watch  her  as  she  steals  in  some  dull  room 

That  brightens  at  her  entrance  —  slow  lets  fall 

A  word  or  two  of  wise  simplicity, 

Then  goes,  and  at  her  going  all  seems  dark. 

Little  she  knows  this  :  little  thinks  each  brow 

Lightens,  each  heart  grows  purer  with  her  eyes, 

Good,  honest  eyes  —  clear,  upward,  righteous  eyes, 

That  look  as  if  they  saw  the  dim  unseen, 

And    learnt    from    thence    their    deep    compassionate 

calm. 

Why  do  I  precious  hold  this  friend  of  mine  ? 
Why  in  our  talks,  our  quiet  fireside  talks, 
When  we,  two  earnest  travellers  through  the  dark, 
Grasp  at  the  guiding  threads  that  homeward  lead, 
Seems  its  another  soul  than  hers  looks  out 
From  these  her  eyes  ?  —  until  I  oft-times  start 
And  quiver,  as  when  some  soft  ignorant  hand 
Touches  the  barb  hid  in  a  long-heal'd  wound. 
Yet  still  no  blame,  but  thanks  to  thee,  dear  friend, 
Ay,  even  when  we  wander  back  at  eve, 
Thy  careless  arm  loose  link'd  within  my  own  — 
The  same  height  as  I  gaze  down  —  nay,  the  hair 
Her  very  colour  —  fluttering  'neath  the  stars  — 
The  same  large  stars  which  lit  that  earlier  world. 


170  CONSTANCY  IN  INCONSTANCY. 

I  have  another  love  —  whose  dewy  looks 

Are  fresh  with  life's  young  dawn.     I  prophesy 

The  streak  of  light  now  trembling  on  the  hills 

Will  broaden  out  into  a  glorious  day. 

Thou  sweet  one,  meek  as  good,  and  good  as  fair, 

Wise  as  a  woman,  harmless  as  a  child, 

I  love  thee  well!     And  yet  not  thee,  not  thee, 

God  knows  —  they  know  who  sit  among  the  stars. 

As  one  whose  sun  was  darken'd  before  noon, 

Creeps  patiently  along  the  twilight  lands, 

Sees  glow-worms,  meteors,  or  tapers  kind 

Of  an  hour's  burning,  stops  awhile  to  mark, 

Thanks  heaven  for  them,  but  never  calls  them  day  — 

So  love  I  these,  and  more.     Yet  thou,  my  sun, 

Who  rose,  leap'd  to  thy  zenith,  sat  there  throned, 

And  made  the  whole  earth  day  —  look,  if  thou  canst, 

Out  of  thy  veiled  glory,  and  behold 

How  all  these  lesser  lights  but  come  and  go, 

Mere  reflexes  of  thee.     Be  it  so !     I  keep 

My  face  unto  the  eastward,  where  thou  stand'st  — 

I  know  thou  stand'st  —  behind  the  purpling  hills, 

And  I  shall  wake  and  find  morn  in  the  world. 


BURIED   TO-DAY. 

February  23,  1858. 

BURIED  to-day. 

When  the  soft  green  buds  are  bursting  out, 
And  up  on  the  south  wind  comes  a  shout 
Of  village  boys  and  girls  at  play- 
In  the  mild  spring  evening  grey. 

Taken  away- 
Sturdy  of  heart  and  stout  of  limb, 
From  eyes  that  drew  half  their  light  from  him, 

And  put  low,  low,  underneath  the  clay, 

In  his  spring  —  on  this  spring  day. 

Passes  away 

All  the  pride  of  boy -life  begun, 

All  the  hope  of  life  yet  to  run ; 
Who  dares  to  question  when  One  saith  "  Nay." 
Murmur  not  —  only  pray. 


172  BURIED   TO-DAY. 

Enters  to-day 

Another  body  in  churchyard  sod, 
Another  soul  on  the  life  in   God. 

His  Christ  was  buried  —  and  lives  alvvay 

Trust  Him,  and  go  your  way. 


THE   MILL. 

For  an  Irish  Tune. 

and  grinding 
Round  goes  the  mill: 
Winding  and  grinding 

Should  never  stand  still. 
Ask  not  if  neighbour 

Grind  great  or  small : 
Spare  not  your  labour, 

Grind  your  wheat  all. 

Winding  and  grinding  round  goes  the  mill : 
Winding  and  grinding  should  never  stand  still. 

Winding  and  grinding 

Work  through  the  day, 
Grief  never  minding  — 

Grind  it  away  ! 
What  though  tears  dropping 

Rust  as  they  fall  ? 


174  THE   MILL. 

Have  no  wheel  stopping  — 

Work  comforts  all. 

Winding  and  grinding  round  goes  the  mill: 
Winding  and  grinding  should  never  stand  still. 


NORTH  WIND. 

LOUD   wind,    strong    wind,   sweeping   o'er    the    moun 
tains, 

Fresh  wind,  free  wind,  blowing  from  the  sea, 
Tour    forth    thy    vials    like    streams    from    airy    foun 
tains, 
Draughts  of  life  to  me. 

Clear  wind,  cold  wind,  like  a  Northern  giant, 
Stars  brightly  threading  thy  cloud-driven  hair, 

Thrilling  the  blank  night  with  thy  voice  defiant, 
Lo!    I  meet  thee  there. 

Wild  wind,  bold  wind,  like  a  strong-arm'd  angel, 
Clasp  me  and  kiss  me  with  thy  kisses  divine  ; 

Breathe    in    this    dull'd    ear    thy    secret    sweet    evan 

gel—    . 
Mine  —  and  only  mine. 


176  NORTH   WIND. 

Fierce  wind,  mad  wind,  howling  o'er  the  nations, 
Knew'st  thou  how  leapeth   my  heart  as  thou  goest 
by: 

Ah,  thou  wouldst  pause  awhile  in  a  sudden  patience 
Like  a  human  sigh. 

Sharp  wind,  keen  wind,  cutting  as  word-arrows. 
Empty   thy    quiverful !    pass    by !      What   is  't    to 

thee, 
That   in    some  mortal  eyes  life's  whole    bright    circle 

narrows, 
To  one  misery  ? 

Loud  wind,  strong  wind,  stay  thou  in  the  mountains, 
Fresh  wind,  free  wind,  trouble  not  the  sea. 

Or    lay    thy    deathly    hand    upon    my    heart's    warm 

fountains, 
That  I  hear  not   thee. 


NOW   AND   AFTERWARDS. 


"Two  hands  upon  the  breast  and  labour  is  past." 

RUSSIAN  PROVERB. 


"Two  hands  upon  the  breast, 

And  labour  's  done  ; 
Two  pale  feet  cross'd  in  rest  — 

The  race  is  won  ; 
Two  eyes  with  coin-weights  shut, 

And  all  tears  cease  ; 
Two  lips  where  grief  is  mute, 

Anger  at  peace  ;  " 

So    pray   we  oftentimes,  mourning  our  lot: 
God  in   his  kindness   answereth   not. 

"Two  hands  to  work  addrest 

Aye  for   His   praise  ; 
Two   feet  that  never  rest 

Walking   His   ways ; 
Two   eyes  that  look  above 
Through  all  their  tears  ; 
12 


178  NOW   AND   AFTERWARDS. 

Two   lips   still  breathing  love, 

Not   wrath,  nor  fears  ; " 
So  pray  we   afterwards,   low  on  our  knees ; 
Pardon  those   erring  prayers  !     Father,  hear  these  ! 


A   SKETCH. 

''  Emelie,  that  fayrer  was  to  scene 

Than  is  the  lilye  on  hys  stalke  grene." — 
>;  Uprose  the  sun  and  uprose  Emelie." 

DOST  thou  thus  love  me,   O   thou  beautiful? 
So  beautiful,  that  by  thy  side  I  seem 
Like  a  great  dusky   cloud  beside  a  star: 
Yet  thou  creep'st  o'er  its  edges,  and  it  rests 
On  its  lone   path,  the  slow  deep-hearted  cloud  — 
Then  opes  a  rift  and  lets   thee   enter  in  ; 
And  with  thy  beauty  shining  on  its  breast, 
Feels  no  more  its  own  blackness  —  thou  art  fair. 

Dost  thou   thus  love  me,   O   thou   all   beloved, 
In  whose  large  store  the   very  meanest  coin 
Would  out-buy   my   whole   wealth  ?     Yet  here  thou 

comest 

Like  a  kind  heiress  from   her  purple   and  down 
Uprising,  who  for  pity  cannot  sleep, 
But  goes  forth  to  the  stranger  at  her  gate  — 
The  beggar'd  stranger  at  her  beauteous  gate  — 
And  clothes  and  feeds ;  scarce  blest  till  she  has  blest. 


180  A    SKETCH. 

Dost  thou   thus  love   me,  O   thou  pure  of  heart. 
Whose  very  looks  are  prayers?    What  could'st  thou 

see 

In  this  forsaken  pool  by  the  yew-wood's   side, 
To   sit  down  at  its   bank,  and  dip   thy  hand. 
Saying,  "It  is  so  clear!"   -And  lo,  ere  long 
Its  blackness  caught  the  shimmer  of  thy  wings 
Its  slimes  slid  downward  from  thy  stainless  palm, 
Its  depths  grew   still  that  there  thy  form  might  rise. 

O  beautiful !   O  well-beloved  !   O  rich 
In   all  that  makes  my  need!     I  lay  me   down 
I'  the   shadow  of  thy  love,  and  feel   no   pain. 
The   cloud  floats  on,  thee   glittering  on   its  breast, 
The  beggar  wears  thy  purple  as  his  own: 
The  noisome  waves,  made  calm,   creep  to  thy  feet 
Rejoicing  that  they  yet  can  image  thee, 
And   beyond   thee,    God's   heaven,   thick-sown    with 
stars. 


THE   UNKNOWN   COUNTRY. 

To  a  German  Air. 

*•  WHERE  is   the  unknown  country  ?  " 
I  whisper'd  sad  and  slow  — 

"The  strange  and  awful  country 

To   which  I   soon  must  go,   must   go, 
To   which   I  soon   must  go  ? " 

Out   of  the  unknown  country 
A  voice  sang  soft  and  low. 
"  O  pleasant  is  that  country 

And  sweet  it  is  to  go,  to  go, 
And  sweet  it  is  to  go. 

44  Along  the  shining  country    ' 
The  peaceful  rivers  flow  : 
And  in  that  wondrous  country 

The   tree  of  life   does  grow,   does   grow, 
The  tree  of  life  does  grow." 


182         THE  UNKNOWN  COUNTRY. 

Ah,   then   into  that   country 
Of  which   I  nothing  know, 

The  everlasting  country, 

With   willing  heart  I   go,  I   gc 
With   willing  heart   I  go. 


A   CHILD'S   SMILE. 

"  For  I  say  unto  you,  that  in  heaven  their  angels  do  always  behold 
the  face  of  my  Father  which  is  in  Heaven." 

A  CHILD'S  smile  —  nothing  more  ; 

Quiet,  and  soft,  and  grave,  and  seldom  seen  ; 

Like  summer  lightning  o'er, 

Leaving  the  little  face  again  serene. 

I  think,  boy  well-beloved, 

Thine  angel,  who  did   grieve  to  see  how  far 

Thy  childhood  is  removed 

From  sports  that  dear  to  other  children  are, 

On  this  pale  cheek  has  thrown 

The  brightness  of  his  countenance,  and  made 

A  beauty  like  his  own  — 

That  while  we  see  it,  we  are  half  afraid, 

And  marvel,  will  it  stay  ? 

Or,  long  ere  manhood,   will   that  angel  fair 


184  A   CHILD'S   SMILE. 

Departing  some  sad  day, 

Steal  the  child-smile  and  leave  the  shadow  care? 

Nay,  fear  not.     As  is  given 

Unto  this  child  the  father  watching  o'er, 

His  angel  up  in  heaven 

Beholds  Our  Father's  face  for  evermore. 

And   he   will   help  him  bear 

His  burthen,  as  his  father  helps  him   now  ; 

So  may   he  come   to   wear 

That   happy  child-smile  on   an  old  man's   brow. 


VIOLETS. 

SENT     IN     A    LITTLE     BOX. 

LET  them  lie,  yes,  let  them  lie, 
They  '11  be  dead  to-morrow  : 

Lift  the  lid  up  quietly 

As  you  'd  lift  the  mystery 
Of  a  shrouded  sorrow. 

Let  them  lie,  the  fragrant  things, 
Their  sweet  souls  thus  giving: 
Let  no  breezes'  ambient  wings, 
And  no  useless  water-springs 
Lure  them  into  living. 

They  have  lived  —  they  live  no  more 
Nothing  can  requite  them 

For  the  gentle  life  they  bore 

And  up-yielded  in  full-store 
While  it  did  delight  them. 


VIOLETS. 

Yet,  poor  flowers,  not  sad  to  die 

In  the  hand  that  slew  ye, 
Did  ye  leave  the  open  sky, 
And  the  winds  that  wander'd  by, 
And  the  bees  that  knew  ye. 

Giving  up  a  small  earth  place, 

And  a  day  of  blooming, 
Here  to  lie  in  narrow  space, 
Smiling  in  this  sickly  face, 
This  dull  air  perfuming  ? 

O  my  pretty  violets  dead, 
Coffin'd  from  all  gazes, 
We  will  also  smiling  shed 
Out  of  our  flowers  withered, 
Perfume  of  sweet  praises. 

And  as  ye,  for  this  poor  sake, 

Love  with  life  are  buying, 

So,  I  doubt  not,  ONE  will  make 

All  our  gather'd  flowers  to  take 

Richer  scent  through  dying. 


EDENLAND. 

Eor  Music. 

You  remember  where  in  starlight 
We  two  wander'd  hand  in  hand, 

While  the  night-flowers  pour'd  their  perfume 
And  m'o-ht-airs  the  still  earth  fann'd  ?  — 

O 

There  I,  walking  yester  even, 
Felt  like  a  ghost  in  Edenland. 

I  remember  all  you  told  me, 

Looking  up  as  we  did  stand, 
While  my  heart  poured  out  its  perfume. 

Like  the  night-flowers,  in  your  hand  ; 
And  the  path  where  we  two  wander'd 

Seem'd  not  like  earth  but  Edenland. 

Now  the  stars  shine  paler,  colder 

Night-flowers  die  without  your  hand ; 

Yet  my  spirit  walks  beside  you 
Everywhere,   unsought,  unbann'd. 

And  I  wait  till  we  shall  wander 
Under  the  stars  of  Edenland. 


THE   HOUSE    OF    CLAY. 

THERE   was  a  house,  a  house  of  clay, 
Wherein  the  inmate  sat  all  day, 

Merry  and  poor ; 
For  Hope  sat  with  her,  heart  to  heart, 

Fond  and  kind,  fond  and  kind, 
Vowing  he  never  would  depart,  — 

Till  all  at  once  he  changed  his  mind : 
•'  Sweetheart,  good-bye  !  "     He  slipp'd  away 

And  shut  the  door. 
i 

But  Love  came  past,  and  looking  in 
With  smile  that  pierced  like  sunbeam  thin 

Through  wall,  roof,  floor, 
Stood  in  the  rnidst  of  that  poor  room. 

Grand  and  fair,  grand  and  fair, 
Making  a  glory  out  of  gloom  :  — 

Till  at  the  window  mock'd  grim   Care : 
Love  sighed  ;  u  All  lose,  and  nothing  win  ? " 

He  shut  the  door. 


THE   HOUSE    OF   CLAY.  189 

Then  o'er  the  close-barr'd  house  of  clay 
Kind  clematis  and  woodbine  gay 

Crept  more  and  more; 
And  bees  humm'd  merrily  outside 

Loud  and  strong,  loud  and  strong, 
The  inner  silentness  to  hide, 

The  patient  silence  all  day  long  ; 
Till  evening  touch'd  with  finger  grey 

The  bolted  door. 

Most  like,  the  next  step  passing  by 
Will  be  the  Angel's,  whose  calm  eye 

Marks  rich,  marks  poor: 
Who,  fearing  not,  at  any  gate 

Stands  and  calls,  stands  and  calls  ; 
At  which  the  inmate  opens  straight,— 

Whom,  ere  the  crumbling  clay-house  falls, 
He  takes  in  kind  arms  silently, 

And  shuts  the  door. 


WINTER  MOONLIGHT. 

LOUD-VOICED  night,  with  the  wild  wind  blowing 

Many  a  tune  ; 
Stormy  night,  with  white  rain-clouds   going 

Over  the  moon  ; 

Mystic  night,  that  each  minute  changes, 
Now  as  blue  as  the  mountain-ranges 

Far,  far  away; 
Now  as  black  as  a  heart  where  strange  is 

Joy,  night  or  day. 

Wondrous  moonlight,  unlike  all  moonlights 

Since  I  was  born  ; 
That  on  a  hundred,  bright  as  noonlights, 

Looks  in  slow  scorn,  — 

Moonlights  where  the  old  vine-leaves  quiver, 
Moonlights  shining  on  vale  and  river, 

Where  old  paths  lie  ; 
Moonlights  —  Night,  blot  their  like  for  ever 

Out  of  the  sky  ! 


WINTER  MOONLIGHT.  191 

Hail,  new  moonlight,  fierce,  wild,  and  stormy, 

Wintry  and  bold  ! 
Hail,  sharp  wind,  that  can  strengthen,  warm  me, 

If  ne'er  so  cold  ! 

Not  chance  driven  this  deluge  rages, 
ONE  doth  pour  out  and  ONE  assuages ; 

Under  His  hand 
Drifting,  Noah-like,  into  the  ages, 

I  shall  touch  land. 


THE    PLANTING. 

'•  I  said  to  my  little  son,  who  was  watching  tearfully  a  tree  he  had  planted 
— '  Let  it  alone:  it  will  grow  while  you  are  sleeping. ;  " 

PLANT  it  safe  and  sure,  my  child, 

Then  cease  watching  and  cease  weeping  ; 

You  have  done  your  utmost  part : 

Leave  it  with  a  quiet  heart : 

It  will  grow  while  you  are  sleeping. 

"But,  O  father,"  says  the  child, 

With  a  troubled  face  up-creeping, 

"  How  can  I  but  think  and  grieve 

When  the  fierce  wind  comes  at  eve 
Tearing  it  —  and  I  lie  sleeping  ! 

*•  I  have  loved  my  young  tree  so ! 

In  each  bud  seen  leaf  and  floweret, 
Water'd  it  each  day  with  prayers, 
Guarded  it  with  many  cares, 

Lest  some  canker  should  devour  it. 


THE  PLANTING. 

"O  good  father,"  sobs  the  child, 

"  If  I  come  in  summer's  shining 
And  my  pretty  tree  be  dead, 
How  the  sun  will  scorch  my  head, 
How  I  shall  sit  lorn,  repining ! 

"  Rather  let  me  evermore, 

An  incessant  watch  thus  keeping, 
Bear  the  cold,  the  storm,  the  frost, 
That  my  treasure  be  not  lost  — 

Ay,  bear  aught  —  but  idle  sleeping." 

Sternly  said  the  father  then, 

"  Who  art  thou,  child,  vainly  grieving  ? 
Canst  thou  send  the  balmy  dews, 
Or  the  rich  sap  interfuse 

Through  the  dead  trunk,  inly  living? 

"  Canst  thou  bid  the  heavens  restrain 

Natural  tempests  for  thy  praying? 
Canst  thou  bend  one  tender  shoot, 
Urge  the  growth  of  one  frail  root, 
Keep  one  leaflet  from  decaying? 

"If  it  live  to  bloom  all  fair, 

Will  it  praise  thee  for  its  blossom  ? 
If  it  die,  will  any  plaints 
13 


194  THE   PLANTING. 

Reach  thee,  as  with  kings  and  saints 
Drops  it  to  the  cold  earth's  bosom  ? 

"  Plant  it  —  all  thou  canst !  —  with  prayers : 

It  is  safe  'neath  His  sky's  folding 
Who  the  whole  earth  compasses, 
Whether  we  watch  more  or  less, 

His  wide  eye  all  things  beholding. 

"  Should  He  need  a  goodly  tree 

For  the  shelter  of  the  nations, 

He  will  make  it  grow :   if  not, 

Never  yet  His  love  forgot 

Human  love,  and  faith,  and  patience. 

"  Leave  thy  treasure  in    His  hand  — 

Cease  all  watching  and  all  weeping : 

Years  hence,  men  its  shade  may  crave, 

And  its  mighty  branches  wave 

Beautiful  above  thy  sleeping." 

If  his  hope,  tear-sown,  that  child 

Garner'd  after  joyful  reaping, 
Know  I  not:   yet  unawares 
Gleams  this  truth  through  many  cares, 

"It  will  grow  while  thou  art  sleeping.1" 


SITTING    ON    THE    SHORE. 

THE  tide  has  ebb'd  away : 

No  more  wild   dasbings  'gainst  the  adamant  rocks, 
Nor  swayings  amidst  sea-weed  false  that  mocks 

The  hues  of  gardens  gay: 

No  laugh  of  little  wavelets  at  their  play: 
No  lucid  pools  reflecting  heaven's  clear  brow  — 
Both  storm  and  calm  alike  are  ended  now. 

The  rocks  sit  grey  and  lone  : 
The  shifting  sand  is  spread  so  smooth   and  dry, 
That  not  a  tide  might  ever  have  swept  by 

Stirring  it  with   rude  moan  : 

Only  some  weedy  fragments  idly  thrown 
To  rot  beneath  the  sky,  tell  what  has  been  : 
But   Desolation's  self  has  grown  serene. 

Afar  the  mountains   rise, 
And  the  broad  estuary  widens  out, 
All  sunshine  ;    wheeling  round  and  round   about 


196  SITTING   ON  THE   SHORE. 

Seaward,  a   white  bird  flies. 

A  bird?     Nay,  seems  it  rather  in  these  eyes 
A  spirit,  o'er  Eternity's  dim  sea 
Calling — "Come   thou  where  all  we  glad  souls  be." 

O  life,  O  silent  shore, 

Where  we  sit  patient;    O  great  sea  beyond 
To  which  we  turn  with  solemn   hope  and  fond, 

But  sorrowful  no   more  : 

A  little   while,  and  then  we  too  shall   soar 
Like   white-wing'd  sea-birds  into  the  Infinite  Deep : 
Till  then,  Thou,  Father  —  wilt  our  spirits  keep. 


EUDOXIA. 

FIRST  PICTURE. 

O  SWEETEST   my  sister,    my    sister   that    sits    in    the 

sun, 
Her  lap  full  of  jewels,  and  roses  in  showers  on    her 

hair  ; 
Soft  smiling  and  counting  her  riches  up  slow,  one  by 

one, 
Cool-brow'd,    shaking    dew  from  her  garlands  —  those 

garlands  so  fair, 
Many  gasp,  climb,  snatch,  struggle,  and  die  for  —  her 

every-day  wear! 
O  beauteous    my  sister,   turn    downwards    those    mild 

eyes  of  thine, 
Lest  they  stab  with  their  smiling,  and  blister  or  scorch 

where  they  shine. 

Young  sister  who  never    yet    sat  for    an    hour    in  the 
cold, 


198  EUDOXIA. 

Whose  cheek  scarcely  feels  half  the  roses  that  throng 

to  caress, 
Whose  light  hands  hold  loosely  these  jewels  and  silver 

and  gold, 
Remember  thou  those  in  the  world  who  for   ever   on 

press 

In  perils  and  watchings,  and  hunger  and  nakedness, 
While  thou   sit'st  content  in  this   sunlight    that    round 

thee  doth  shine. 
Take  heed !    these  have  long   borne    their  burthen  — 

now  lift  thou  up  thine. 

Be  meek  —  as  befits  one  whose  cup  to  the  brim  is 
love-crown'd, 

While  others  in  dry  dust  drop  empty  —  What,  what 
canst  thou  know 

Of  the  wild  human  tide  that  goes  sweeping  eternally 
round 

The  isle  where  thou  sit'st  pure  and  calm  as  a  statue 
of  snow, 

Around  which  good  thoughts  like  kind  angels  con 
tinually  go  ? 

Be  pitiful.  Whose  eyes  once  turn'd  from  the  angels 
to  shine 

Upon  publicans,  sinners  ?  O  sister,  't  will  not  pol 
lute  thine. 


EUDOXIA.  199 

Who,   even-eyed,   looks    on    His   children,    the    black 

and  the  fair, 
The  loved  and  the   unloved,  the  tempted,   untempted 

—  marks  all, 
And   metes  —  not    as    man    metes  ?      If    thou    with 

weak  tender  hand  dare 
To   take   up    His  balances  —  say    where    His  justice 

should  fall, 
Far   better   be    Magdalen    dead   at   the    gate   of  thy 

hall- 
Dead,   sinning,   and    loving,    and    contrite,    and    par- 

don'd,  to  shine 
Midst   the   saints   high   in    heaven,   than    thou,    angel 

sister  of  mine ! 


EUDOXIA. 
SECOND   PICTURE. 

O    DEAREST    my   sister,   my    sister   who   sits    by   the 

hearth, 
With    lids    softly    drooping,   or   lifted   up    saintly   and 

calm, 
With  household  hands  folded,  or  open'd  for  help  and 

for  balm, 
And    lips,    ripe    and    dewy,    or    ready    for    innocent 

mirth,  — 
Thy  life  rises    upwards   to   heaven  every  day  like   a 

psalm 
Which  the    singer   sings   sleeping,  and    waked,  would 

half  wondering  say  — 
"  I  sang  not.     Nay,  how  could  I  sing  thus  ?  —  I  only 

do  pray." 

O   gentlest   my  sister,-   who    walks   in   at   every   dark 
door 


EUDOXIA.  201 

Whether   bolted   or    open,   unheedful   of   welcome    or 

frown  ; 
But    entering     silent   as    sunlight,    and    there    sitting 

down, 
Illumines  the  damp  walls  and  shines  pleasant  shapes 

on  the  floor, 
And  unlocks  dim  chambers  where  low  lies  sad  Hope, 

without  crown, 
Uplifts    her    from    sackcloth    and    ashes    and    black 

mourning  weeds, 
Re-crowns    and    rerdothes    her.  —  Then,   on    to    the 

next  door  that  needs. 

0  blessed  my  sister,  whose  spirit  so  wholly  dost  live 

In  loving,  that  even  the  word  "  loved,"  with  its  rap 
turous  sound, 

Rings  faintly,  like  earth-tunes  when  angels  are  hym 
ning  around  : 

Whose  eyes  say :  "  Less  happy  methinks  to  receive 
than  to  give."  — 

So  whatsoever  we  give,  may  One  give  to  thee  with 
out  bound, 

All  best  gifts  —  all  dearest  gifts  —  whether  His  right 
hand  do  close 

Or  open  —  He  holds  it  for  ever  above  thee  ;  —  He 
knows  ! 


EUDOXIA. 

THIRD  PICTURE. 

O   SILENT  my  sister,  who  stands   by  my  side   at   the 

shore, 
Back    gazing   with    me    on    those   waves    which    we 

mortals  call  years, 
That   rose,   grew,   and   threatened,    and   climax'd,    and 

broke,  and  were  o'er, 
While  we  still  sit  watching  and  watching,  our  cheeks 

free  from  tears  — 
O  sister,  with   looks   so  familiar,  yet   strange,  flitting 

by, 

Say,  say,  hast  thou  been  to  those  dead  years  as 
faithful  as  I? 

Have  they  cast  at  thy  feet  also,  jewels  and  whiten 
ing  bones, 

Gold,  silver,  and  wreck-wood,  dank  sea-weed  and 
treasures  of  cost  ? 


EUDOXIA.  203 

Hast  thou  buried  thy  dead,  sought  thy  jewels  'midst 
shingle  and  stones, 

And  learnt  how  the  lost  is  the  found,  and  the  found 
is  the  lost  ? 

Or  stood  with  clear  eyes  upturn'd  placid  'twixt  sor 
row  and  mirth, 

As  asking  deep  questions  that  cannot  be  answer'd  on 
earth  ?  — 

I  know  not.  Who  knoweth?  Our  own  souls  we 
scarcely  do  know, 

And  none  knows  his  brother's.  Who  judges,  con 
temns,  or 'bewails, 

Or  mocketh,  or  praiseth  ?  In  this  world's  strange 
vanishing  show, 

The  one  truth  is  loving.  O  sister,  the  dark  cloud 
that  veils 

All  life,  lets  this  rift  through  to  glorify  future  and 
past. 

u  Love  ever  —  love  only  —  love  faithfully  —  love  to 
the  last." 


BENEDETTA  MINELLL 
I. 

THE  NOVICE. 

IT  is  near  morning.     Ere  the  next  night  fall 

I  shall  be  made  the  bride  of  heaven.     Then  home 
To  my  still  marriage  chamber  I  shall  come, 

And  spouseless,  childless,  watch  the  slow  years  crawl. 

These  lips  will  never  meet  a  softer  touch 
Than  the  stone  crucifix  I  kiss  ;    no  child 
Will  clasp  this  neck.     Ah,  virgin-mother  mild, 

Thy  painted  bliss  will  mock  me  overmuch. 

This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  twist  the  hair 

My  mother's  hand  wreath'd,  till  in  dust  she  lay : 
The  name,  her  name,  given  on  my  baptism-day, 

This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  ever  bear. 

O  weary  world,  O  heavy  life,  farewell ! 

Like  a  tired  child  that  creeps  into  the  dark 


BENEDETTA  MINELLI.  205 

To  sob  itself  asleep,  where  none  will  mark,  — 
So  creep  I  to  my  silent  convent  cell. 

Friends,  lovers  whom  I  loved  not,  kindly  hearts 
Who  grieve  that  I  should  enter  this  still  door, 
Grieve  not.  Closing  behind  me  evermore, 

Me  from  all  anguish,  as  all  joy,  it  parts. 

Love,  whom  alone  I  loved ;  who  stand'st  far  off, 
Lifting  compassionate  eyes  that  could 'not  save, 
Remember,  this  my  spirit's  quiet  grave 

Hides  me  from  worldly  pity,  worldly  scoff. 

'T  was    less    thy    hand    than    Heaven's    which    came 

between, 

And  dash'd  my  cup  down.     See,  I  shed    no  tears  : 
And  if  I  think  at  all  of  vanish'd  years, 

T  is  but  to  bless  thee,  dear,  for  what  has  been. 

My  soul  continually  does  cry  to  thee ; 

In  the  night  watches  ghost-like  stealing  out 
From  its  flesh  tomb,  and  hovering  thee  about; 

So  live  that  I  in  heaven  thy  face  may  see  ! 

Live,  noble  heart,  of  whom  this  heart  of  mine 
Was  half  unworthy.     Build  up  actions  great, 


206  BENEDETTA  MINELLI. 

That  I  do\vn  looking  from  the  crystal  gate 
Smile  o'er  our  dead  hopes  urn'd  in  such  a  shrine. 

Live,  keeping  aye  thy  spirit  undefiled, 

That  when  we  stand  before  our  Master's  feet, 
I  with  an  angel's  love  may  crown  complete 

The  woman's  faith,  the  worship  of  the  child. 

Dawn,  solemn  bridal  morn;  ope,  bridal  door, 

I  enter.     My  vow'd  soul  may  Heaven  now  take  ; 
My  heart  its  virgin  spousal  for  thy  sake, 

0  love,  keeps  sacred  thus  for  evermore. 


BENEDETTA  MINELLI. 
II. 

THE  SISTER   OF  MERCY. 

Is  it  then  so  ?  —  Good  friends,  who  sit  and  sigh 
While  I  lie  smiling,  are  my  life's  sands  run  ? 
Will  my  next  matins,  hymn'd  beyond  the  sun; 

Mingle  with  those  of  saints  and  martyrs  high  ? 

Shall  I  with  these  my  grey  hairs  turn'd  to  gold, 
My  aged  limbs  new  clad  in  garments  white. 
Stand  all  transfigured  in  the  angels'  sight, 

Singing  triumphantly  that  moan  of  old, — 

Thy  will  be  done.     It  was  done.     O  my  God, 
Thou  know'st,  when  over  grief's  tempestuous  sea 
My  broken-winged  soul  fled  home  to  Thee, 

I  writhed,  but  never  murmur'd  at  Thy  rod. 


208  BENEDETTA  MINELLI. 

It  fell  upon  me,  stern  at  first,  then  soft 

As  parent's  kisses,  till  the  wound  was  heal'd ; 
And  I  went  forth  a  labourer  in  Thy  field: 

They  best  can  bind  who  have  been  bruised  oft. 

And  Thou  wert  pitiful.     I  came  heart-sore, 

And  drank  Thy  cup  because  earth's  cups  ran  dry. 
Thou  slew'st  me  not  for  that  impiety, 

But  madest  the  draught  so  sweet,  I  thirst  no  more. 

I  came '  for  silence,  heavy  rest,  or  death : 

Thou  gavest  instead  life,  peace,  and  holy  toil : 
My  sighing  lips  from  sorrow  didst  assoil, 

And  fill  with  righteous  thankfulness  each  breath. 

Therefore  I   praise   Thee   that   Thou    shuttest    Thine 

ears 

Unto  my  misery :  didst  Thy  will,  not  mine : 
That  to  this  length  of  days  Thy  hand  divine, 

My  feet  from  falling  kept,  mine  eyes  from  tears. 

Sisters,  draw  near.     Hear  my  last  words  serene  : 
When  I  was  young  I  walk'd  in  mine  own  ways, 
Worshipp'd  —  not    God:     sought     not     alone     His 
praise  ; 

So  He  cut  down  my  gourd  while  it  was  green. 


BENEDETTA  MINELLI.  209 

And  then  He  o'er  me  threw  His  holy  shade, 
That  though  no  other  mortal  plants  might  grow, 
Mocking  the  beauty  that  was  long  laid  low, 

I  dwelt  in  peace,  and  His  commands  obey'd. 

I  thank  Him  for  all  joy  and  for  all  pain : 
For  healed  pangs,  for  years  of  calm  content : 
For  blessedness  of  spending  and  being  spent 

In  His  high  service  where  all  loss  is  gain. 

I  bless  Him  for  my  life  and  for  my  death; 

But  most,  fhat  in  my  death  my  life  is  crown'd, 
Since  I  see  there,  with  angels  gathering  round, 

My  angel.     Ay,  love,  thou  hast  kept  thy  faith, 

I  mine.     The  golden  portals  will  not  close 

Like  those  of  earth,  between  us.     Reach  thy  hand ! 
No  miserere,  sisters.     Chant  out  grand 

Te  Deum  laudamm.     Now  —  't  is  all  repose. 


14 


A  DREAM   OF   DEATH. 

E    shall    we   sail   to-day?"  —  Thus    said,  me- 
thought, 

A  voice,  that  only  could  be  heard  in  dreams  : 
And  on  we  glided  without  mast  or  oar, 
A  wondrous  boat  upon  a  wondrous  sea. 

Sudden,  the  shore  curved  inward  to  a  bay, 
Broad,  calm,  with  gorgeous  sea-weeds  waving  slow 
Beneath  the  water,  like  rich  thoughts  that  stir 
In  the  mysterious  deep  of  poets'  hearts. 

So  still,  so  fair,  so  rosy  in  the  dawn 

Lay  that  bright  bay  :  yet  something  seem'd  to  breathe, 

Or  in  the  air,  or  from  the  whispering  waves, 

Or  from  that  voice,  as  near  as  one's  own  soul, 

"  There   was   a   wreck   last   night"      A   wreck ?    then 

where 

The  ship,  the  crew  ?  —  The  all-entombing  sea 
On  which  is  writ  nor  name  nor  chronicle 
Laid  itself  o'er  them  with  smooth  crystal  smile. 


A  DREAM   OF   DEATH.  211 

"Yet  was  the  wreck  last  night"     And  gazing  down 
Deep  down  below  the  surface,  we  were  ware 
Of  ghastly  faces  with  their  open  eyes 
Uplooking  to  the   dawn  they  could  not  see. 

One  moved  with  moving  sea-weeds :   one  lay   prone. 
The  tinted  fishes  gliding  o'er  his  breast ; 
One,  caught  by  floating  hair,   rock'd  quietly 
Upon  his  reedy  cradle,  like  a  child. 

u  The  wreck  has    been  "  —  said  the   melodious  voice, 
"  Yet  all  is  peace.     The  dead,  that,  while  we  slept, 
Struggled  for  life,  now   sleep  and  fear  no  storms : 
O'er  them  let  us  not  weep  when  heaven  smiles." 

So  we  sail'd  on  above  the  diamond  sands, 
Bright  sea-flowers,  and  white   faces  stony  calm, 
Till  the  waves  bore  us  to  the  open  main, 
And  the  great  sun  arose  upon  the  world. 


A   DREAM   OF  RESURRECTION. 

So  heavenly  beautiful  it  lay, 
It  was  less  like  a  human  corse 
Than  that  fair  shape  in  which  perforce 

A  lost  hope  clothes  itself  alway. 

The  dream  show'd  very  plain  :    the  bed 
Where  that  known  unknown  face  reposed 
A  woman's  face  with  eyelids  closed, 

A  something  precious  that  was  dead  ; 

A  something,  lost  on  this  side  life, 

By  which  the  mourner  came  and  stood, 
And  laid  down,  ne'er  to  be  indued, 

All  flaunting  robes  of  earthly  strife  ; 

Shred  off,  like  votive  locks  of  hair, 

Youth's  ornaments  of  pride  and  strength, 
And  cast  them  in  their  golden  length 

The  silence  of  that  bier  to  share. 


A  DREAM  OF  RESURRECTION.  213 

No  tears  fell  —  but  with  gazings  long 
Lorn  memory  tried  to  print  that  face 
On  the  heart's  ever-vacant  place, 

With  a  sun-finger,  sharp  and  strong. — 

Then  kisses,  dropping  without  sound, 

And  solemn  arms  wound  round  the  dead, 
And  lifting  from  the  natural  bed 

Into  the  coffin's  strange  new  bound. 

Yet  still  no  farewell,  or  belief 

In  death,  no  more  than  one  believes 
In  some  dread  truth  that  sudden  weaves 

The  whole  world  in  a  shroud  of  grief. 

And  still  unanswer'd  kisses  ;    still 
Warm  clingings  to  the   image  cold 
With  an   incredulous  faith's   close  fold, 

Creative  in  its  fierce  "  /  will" 

Hush  —  hush  !    the  marble   eyelids  move, 
The  kiss'd  lips   quiver  into   breath  : 
Avaunt,  thou  mockery  of  Death  ! 

Avaunt  !  —  we  are   conquerors,  I  and   Love. 

Corpse  of  dead  Hope,  awake,  arise, 
A  living  Hope  that  only  slept 


214  A  DREAM   OF   EESURRECTION. 

Until  the  tears  thus  overwept 
Had  wash'd  the  blindness  from  our  eyes. 

Come  back  into  the  upper  day: 

Pluck  off  these  cerements.     Patient  shroud, 
We  '11  wrap  thee  as  a  garment  proud 

Round  the  fair  shape  we  thought  was  clay. 

Clasp,  arms ;    cling,  soul  ;   eyes,  drink  anew 
The  beauty  that  returns  with  breath  : 
Faith,  that  out-loved  this  trance-like  death, 

May  see  this  resurrection  too. 


ON  THE  CLIFF-TOP. 

FACE  upward  to  the  sky 

Quiet   I  lie  : 

Quiet  as  if  the  finger  of  God's  will 

Had  bade  this  human  mechanism  "  be   still  ! ' 

Arid  sent  the  intangible  essence,  this   strange  7, 

All  wondering  forth  to   His  eternity. 

Below,  the  sea's   sound,  faint 

As  dying  saint 

Telling  of  gone-by  sorrows  long  at  rest  : 

Above,  the  fearless  sea-gull's  shimmering  breast 

Painted  a  moment  on   the  dark  blue  skies  — 

A  hovering  joy,  that  while  I  watch  it  flies. 

Alike  unheeded  now 

Old  griefs,  and  thou 

Quick-winged  Joy,  that  like  a  bird  at  play 

Pleasest  thyself  to  visit  me  to-day  : 

On  the  cliff-top,  earth  dim  and  heaven  clear, 

My  soul  lies  calmly,  above  hope  —  or  fear. 


216  ON  THE   CLIFF-TOP. 

But  not  —  (do  Thou  forbid 

Whose  stainless  lid 

Wept  tears  at  Lazarus'  grave,  and  looking  down 

Afar  off,  upon  Solyma's  doom'd  town.) 

Ah,  not  above  love  —  human  yet  divine  — 

Which,  Thee  seen  first,  in  Thee  sees  all  of  Thine ! 

Is  't  sunset  ?     The  keen  breeze 

Blows  from  the  seas : 

And  at  my  side  a  pleasant  vision  stands 

With  her  brown  eyes  and  kind  extended  hands. 

Dear,  we  '11  go  down  together  and  full  fain 

From  the  cliff-top  to  the  busy  world  again. 


AN  EVENING   GUEST. 

IF  in  the  silence  of  this  lonely  eve 

With  the  street  lamp  pale  nickering  on  the  wall, 
An  angel  were  to  whisper  me  —  "  Believe  — 

It  shall  be  given  thee.     Call  !  "   -  whom  should  I 
call? 

And  then  I  were  to  see  thee  gliding  in 

Clad  in  known  garments,  that  with  empty  fold 

Lie  in  my  keeping,  and  my  fingers,  thin 

As   thine  were  once,   to  feel  in  thy  safe  hold : 

"I   should  fall  weeping  on  thy  neck  and  say, 

"I  have  so  suffer'd  since  —  since"  — But  my  tears 

Would  stop,  remembering  how  thou  count'st  thy  day, 
A  day  that  is  with  God  a  thousand  years. 

Then    what    are    these    sad    days,    months,   years   of 

mine, 
To  thine   eternity  of  full  delight  ? 


2:18  AN  EVENING    GUEST. 

What  my  whole  life,   when  myriad  lives   divine 
May  wait,   each  leading  to  a  higher  height? 

I  lose  myself— I  faint.     Beloved,  best, 
Let  me  still  dream,  thy  dear  humanity 

Sits  with  me  here,  my  head  upon  thy  breast, 
And  then  I  will  go  back  to  heaven  with  thee. 


AFTER   SUNSET. 

REST  —  rest  —  four  little  letters,  one   short  word, 

Enfolding  an  infinitude  of  bliss  — 

Rest  is  upon   the   earth.     The  heavy  clouds 

Hang  poised  in   silent  ether,   motionless, 

Seeking  nor  sun  nor  breeze.     No  restless   star 

Thrills  the  sky's  grey-robed  breast  with  pulsing  rays, 

The  night's   heart  has  throbb'd  out. 

No  grass  blade  stirs, 

No  downy-winged  moth  comes  flittering  by 
Caught    by    the    light  —  Thank    Grod,    there    is    no 

'   light, 

No  open-eyed,  loud-voiced,   quick-motion'd  light, 
Nothing  but  gloom  and  rest. 

A  row  of  trees 

Along  the  hill  horizon,  westward,  stands 
All  black  and  still,  as  if  it  were  a  rank 
Of  fallen  angels,  melancholy  met 
Before  the  amber  gate  of  Paradise  — 
The  bright  shut  gate,  whose  everlasting  smile 
Deadens  despair  to  calm. 


220  AFTER   SUNSET. 

O,  better  far 

Better  than  bliss  is  rest!     If  suddenly 
Those  burnish'd  doors  of  molten  gold,  steel-barr'd, 
Which  the  sun  closed  behind  him  as  he  went 
Into  his  bridal  chamber  —  were  to  burst 
Asunder  with  a  clang,  and  in  a  breath 
God's  mysteries  were  reveal'd  —  His  kingdom  came  — 
The  multitudes  of  heavenly  messengers 
Hastening  throughout  all  space  —  the  thunder  quire 
Of  praise  —  the  obedient  lightnings'  lambent  gleam 
Around  the  unseen  Throne  —  should  I  not  sink 
Crush'd  by  the  weight  of  such  beatitudes, 
Crying,  "  Rest,  only  rest,  thou  merciful  God  ! 
Hide  me  within  the  hollow  of  Thy  hand 
In  some  dark  corner  of  the  universe, 
Thy  bright,  full,  busy  universe,  that  blinds, 
Deafens,  and  tortures  —  Give  me  only  rest !  " 

O  for  a  soul-sleep,  long  and  deep  and  still ! 

To  lie  down  quiet  after  the  weary  day, 

Dropping  all  pleasant  flowers  from  the  numb'd  hands, 

Bidding  good-night  to  all  companions  dear, 

Drawing  the  curtains  on  this  darken'd  world, 

Closing  the  eyes,  and  with  a  patient  sigh 

Murmuring  "Our  Father"  —  fall  on  sleep,  till  dawn! 


THE   GARDEN-CHAIR. 

Two  Portraits. 

A  PLEASANT  picture,  full  of  meanings  deep? 

Old  age,  calm  sitting  in  the  July  sun, 

On  wither'd  hands  half-leaning  —  feeble  hands, 

That  after  their  life-labours,  light  or  hard, 

Their  girlish  broideries,  their  marriage-ring'd 

Domestic  duties,  their  sweet  cradle  cares, 

Have  dropp'd  into  the  quiet-folded  ease 

Of  fourscore  years.     How  peacefully  the  eyes 

Face  us !     Contented,  unregretful  eyes, 

That  carry  in  them  the  whole  tale  of  life 

With  its  one  moral  —  "Thus  all  was  —  thus  best." 

Eyes  now  so  near  unto  their  closing  mild 

They  seem  to  pierce  direct  through  all  that  maze, 

As  eyes  immortal  do. 

Here  —  Youth.     She  stands 
Under  the  roses,  with  elastic  foot 
Poised  to  step  forward;   eager-eyed,  yet  grave 


222  THE   GARDEN-CHAIR. 

Beneath  the  mystery  of  the  unknown  To-come, 
Though  longing  for  its  coming.     Firm  prepared 
(So  say  the  lifted  head  and  close,  sweet  mouth) 
For  any  future :   though  the  dreamy  hope 
Throned  on  her  girlish  forehead,  whispers  fond, 
"  Surely  they  err  who  say  that  life  is  hard ; 
Surely  it  shall  not  be  with  me  as  these." 

God  knows :    He  only.     And  so  best,  dear  child, 
Thou  woman-statured,  sixteen-year-old  child, 
Meet  bravely  the  impenetrable  Dark 
Under  thy  roses.     Bud  and  blossom  thou 
Fearless  as  they  —  if  thou  art  planted  safe, 
Whether  for  gathering  or  for  withering,   safe 
In  the  King's  garden. 


AN   OLD  IDEA. 

STREAM  of  my  life,  dull,  placid  river,  flow  ! 
I  have  no  fear  of  the  engulphing  seas : 
Neither  I  look  before  me   nor  behind, 
But  lying  mute  with   wave-dipp'd   hand,  float  on. 

It  was  not  always  so.     My  brethren,  see 
This  oar-stain'd,   trembling  palm.      It  keeps  the  sign 
Of  youth's  mad  wrestling  with  the  waves   that  drift 
Immutably,  eternally  along. 

I     would    have    had    them    flow    through    fields    and 

flowers, 

Giving  and  taking  freshness,  perfume,  joy; 
It  winds  through  —  here.     Be   silent,   O  my  soul ! 
—  The   finger  of   God's   wisdom  drew  its  line. 

So  I  lean   back  and  look  up  to  the  stars, 
And  count  the  ripples  circling  to  the  shore, 
And  watch  the  solemn  river  rolling  on 
Until  it  widen  to  the  open  seas. 


PARABLES. 

"  Hold  every  mortal  joy 
With  a  loose  hand." 

WE   clutch  our  joys  as   children  do   their  flowers ; 
We  look  at  them,  but  scarce  believe  them  ours, 
Till  our  hot  palms  have  smirch'd  their  colours  rare 
And  crush'd  their  dewy  beauty   unaware. 

But  the  wise   Gardener,  whose  they  were,   comes   by 
At  hours   when  we  expect  not,   and   with  eye 
Mournful  yet  sweet,  compassionate  though  stern, 
Takes  them. 

Then  in  a  moment  we  discern 
By  loss,  what  was  possession,  and  half  wild 
With   misery,   cry  out  like  angry   child  : 
"  0  cruel !    thus  to  snatch  my  posy  fine ! " 
He  answers  tenderly,  "Not  thine,  but  mine.'-' 
And  points  to  those  stain'd  fingers  which  do  prove 
Our  fatal  cherishing,   our  dangerous  love ; 
At  which   we,  chidden,  a  pale  silence  keep  ; 
Yet  evermore  must  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep. 


PARABLES.  225 

So  on  through  gloomy  ways  and  thorny  brakes, 
Quiet  and  slow,  our  shrinking  feet  he  takes, 
Led  by  the  soiled  hand,  which,  laved  in  tears, 
More  and  more  clean  beneath  his  sight  appears. 
At  length  the  heavy  eyes  with  patience  shine  — 
"  I  am  content.     Thou  took'st  but  what  was  thine." 

And  then  he  us  his  beauteous  garden  shows, 
Where  bountiful  the   Rose  of   Sharon  grows: 
Where  in  the  breezes  opening  spice-buds  swell, 
And  the  pomegranates  yield  a  pleasant  smell : 
While  to  and  fro  peace-sandalled  angels  move 
In  the  pure  air  that  they  —  not  we  —  call  Love  : 
An  air  so  rare  and  fine,  our  grosser  breath 
Cannot  inhale  till  purified  by  death. 
And  thus  we,  struck  with  longing  joy,  adore, 
And  satisfied,  wait  mute  without  the  door, 
Until  the  gracious  Gardener  maketh  sign, 
"  Enter  in  peace.     All  this  is  mine  —  and  thine." 


16 


LETTICE. 

• 

I  SAID  to  Lettice,  our  sister  Lettice, 

While  droop'd  and  glisten'd  her  eyelash  brown, 
"  Your  man  's  a  poor  man,  a  cold  and  dour  man. 

There  's  many  a  better  about  our  town."  — 
She  smiled  securely  —  "  He  loves  me  purely  : 

A  true  heart  's  safe,  both  in  smile  or  frown  ; 
And  nothing  harms  me  while  his  love  warms  me, 

Whether  the  world  go  up  or  down." 

"  He  comes  of  strangers,  and  they  are  rangers, 

And  ill  to  trust,  girl,  when  out  of  sight : 
Fremd  folk  may  blame  ye,  and  e'en  defame  ye  — 

A  gown  oft  handled  looks  seldom  white." 
She  raised  serenely  her  eyelids  queenly, — 

"  My  innocence  is  my  whitest  gown ; 
No  harsh  tongue  grieves  me  while  he  believes  me, 

Whether  the  world  go  up  or  down." 

"  Your  man  's  a  frail  man,  was  ne'er  a  hale  man, 
And  sickness  knocketh  at  every  door, 


LETTIGE.  227 

And    death  comes  making  bold   hearts   cower,  break 
ing  —  " 

Our  Lettice  trembled  ;  —  but  once,  no  more,; 
"  If  death  should  enter,  smite  to  the  centre 

Our  poor  home  palace,  all  crumbling  down, 
He  cannot  fright  us,  nor  disunite  us, 

Life     bears     Love's    cross,    death     brings     Love's 
crown." 


A   SPIRIT  PRESENT. 

IF,  coming  from  that  unknown  sphere 

Where  I  believe  thou  art  — 
The  world  unseen  which  girds  our  world 

So  close,  yet  so  apart,  — 
Thy  soul's  soft  call  unto  my  soul 

Electrical  could  reach, 
And  mortal  and  immortal  blend 

In  one  familiar  speech,  — 

What  wouldst  thou  say  to  me?  wouldst  ask 

What,  since  did  me  befall? 
Or  close  this  chasm  of  cruel  years 

Between  us  —  knowing  all? 
Wouldst  love  me  —  thy  pure  eyes  seeing  that 

God  only  saw  beside  ? 
Oh,  love  me !     'T  was  so  hard  to  live, 

So  easy  to  have  died. 

If  while  this  dizzy  whirl  of  life 
A  moment  pausing  stay'd, 


A   SPIRIT   PRESENT.  229 

I  face  to  face   with   thee  could  stand, 

I  would  not  be  afraid : 
Not  though,  from   heaven  to  heaven  thy  feet 

In  glad  ascent  have  trod, 
While  mine  took  through   earth's   miry  ways 

Their  solitary   road. 

"We  could  not  lose   each   other.     World 

On  world  piled   ever  higher 
Would  part  like  bank'd  clouds,   lightning-cleft 

By  our  two  souls'  desire. 
Life  ne'er  divided  us ;    death  tried, 

But  could   not ;    Love's  voice  fine 
Call'd  luring  through  the  dark  —  then  ceased, 

And  I  am  wholly  thine. 


A   WINTER  WALK. 

WE  never  had  believed,  I  wis, 

At  primrose  time   when  west  winds  stole 
Like  thoughts  of  youth  across  the  soul, 

In  such  an  alter'd  time  as  this, 

When  if  one  little  flower  did  peep 

Up  through  the  brown  and  sullen  grass, 
We  should  just  look  on   it,  and  pass 

As  if  we  saw  it  in  our  sleep. 

Feeling  as  sure  as  that  this  ray 

Which  cottage  children  call  the  sun, 
Colours  the  .pale  clouds  one  by  one,  — 

Our  touch   would  make  it  drop   to  clay. 

We  never  could  have  look'd,  in  prime 
Of  April,  or  when  July  trees 
Shook  full-leaved  in  the  evening  breeze, 

Upon  the  face  of  this  pale  time, 


A   WINTER   WALK.  231 

Still,   soft,  familiar  ;    shining  bleak 
On  naked  branches,   sodden  ground, 
Yet  shining  —  as   if  one  had  found 

A  smile  upon  a  dead  friend's  cheek, 

Or  old  friend,   lost  for  years,  had  strange 
In  alter'd  mien  come  sudden  back, 
Confronting  us  with  our  great   lack  — 

Till   loss   seem'd  far  less  sad  than  change. 

Yet  though,  alas !    Hope   did  not  see 

This   winter  skeleton   through  full  leaves, 
Out  of  all  bareness  Faith  perceives 

Possible  life  in  field  and  tree. 

In  bough  and  trunk  the   sap  will  move, 

And  the  mould  break  o'er  springing  flowers ; 
Nature  revives  with  all  her  powers, 

But  only  nature  ;  —  never  love. 

So,  listlessly  with  linked  hands 

Both   Faith  and   Hope  glide  soft  away ; 
While  in  long  shadows,   cool  and  grey, 

The  sun  sets  o'er  the  barren  lands. 


"WILL   SAIL   TO-MORROW." 

THE   good   ship  lies   in   the   crowded  dock, 

Fair  as   a  statue,  firm  as  a  rock  : 

Her  tall  masts  piercing   the  still  blue   air, 

Her  funnel  glittering  white    and  bare, 

Whence   the  long  soft  line  of  vapoury  smoke 

Betwixt  sky  and  sea  like  a  vision  broke, 

Or  slowly  o'er  the  horizon   curl'd 

Like  a  lost  hope  fled  to  the  other  world: 

She   sails   to-morrow  — 

Sails   to-morrow. 

Out  steps  the  captain,  busy  and  grave, 
With  his  sailor's  footfall,  quick  and  brave, 
His  hundred  thoughts  and  his  thousand  cares, 
And  his  steady  eye  that  all  things  dares  : 
Though  a  little  smile  o'er  the  kind  face  dawns 
On  the  loving  brute  that  leaps  and  fawns, 
And  a  little  shadow  comes  and  goes, 
As  if  heart  or  fancy  fled  —  where,  who  knows  ? 

He  sails  to-morrow : 

Sails  to-morrow. 


"WILL  SAIL  TO-MORROW."  233 

To-morrow  the  serried  line  of  ships 
Will  quick  close  after  her  as  she  slips 
Into  the  unknown  deep  once  more : 
To-morrow,  to-morrow,  some  on  shore 
With  straining  eyes  shall  desperate  yearn  — 
"  This  is  not  parting  ?   return  —  return  !  " 
Peace,  wild-wrung  hands !  hush,  sobbing  breath  ! 
Love  keepeth  its  own  through  life  and  death ; 

Though  she  sails  to-morrow  — 

Sails  to-morrow. 

Sail,  stately  ship  ;   down  Southampton  water 
Gliding  fair  as  old  Nereus'  daughter: 
Christian  ship  that  for  burthen  bears 
Christians,  speeded  by  Christian  prayers  ; 
All  kind  angels  follow  her  track! 
Pitiful  God,  bring  the  good  ship  back  ! 
All  the  souls  in  her  for  ever  keep 
Thine,  living  or  dying,  awake  or  asleep: 

Then  sail  to-morrow  ! 

Ship,  sail  to-morrow ! 


AT  EVEN-TIDE. 

C.  N.  — Died,  April  1857. 

WHAT  spirit  is  it  that  doth  pervade 
The  silence  of  this  empty  room  ? 

And  as  I  lift  my  eyes,  what  shade 
Glides  off  and  vanishes  in  gloom  ? 

I  could  believe  this  moment  gone, 

A  known  form  fill'd  that  vacant  chair, 

That  those  kind  eyes  upon  me  shone 
I  never  shall  see  anywhere  ! 

The  living  are  so  far  away : 

But  thou  —  thou  seemest  strangely  near 
Knowest  all  my  silent  heart  would  say, 

Its  peace,  its  pain,  its  hope,  its  fear. 

And  from  thy  calm  supernal  height, 
And  wondrous  wisdom  newly  won. 


AT  EVEN-TIDE.  235 

Smilest  on  all  our  poor  delight, 
And  petty  woe  beneath  the  sun. 

From  all  this  coil  thou  hast  slipp'd  away, 

As  softly  as  a  cloud  departs 
Along  the  hill-side  purple   grey  — 

Into  the  heaven  of  patient  hearts. 

Nothing  here  suffer'd,  nothing  miss'd, 

Will  ever  stir  from  its  repose 
The  death-smile  on  her  lips  unkiss'd, 

Who  all  things  loves  and  all  things  knows. 

And  I,  who,  ignorant  and  weak, 

Of  love  so  helpless  —  quick  to  pain, 

With  restless  longing  ever  seek 
The  unattainable  in  vain. 

Find  it  strange  comfort  thus  to  sit 
While  the  loud  world  unheeded  rolls, 

And  clasp,  ere  yet  the  fancy  flit, 

A  friend's  hand  from  the  land  of  souls. 


A  DEAD   SEA-GULL. 

.Near  Liverpool. 

LACK-LUSTRE  eye,  and  idle  wing, 

And  smirched  breast  that  skims  no  more, 

White  as  the  foam  itself,  the  wave  — 

Hast  thou  not  even  a  grave 

Upon  the  dreary  shore, 

Forlorn,  forsaken  thing? 

Thou  whom  the  deep  seas  could  not  drown, 
Nor  all  the  elements  affright, 
Flashing  like  thought  across  the  main, 
Mocking  the  hurricane, 
Screaming  with  shrill  delight 
When  the  great  ship  went  down. 

Thee  not  thy  beauty  saved,  nor  mirth, 

Nor  daring,  nor  thy  humble  lot, 

One  among  thousands  —  in  quick  haste 


A  DEAD   SEA-GULL.  237 

Fate  clutch'd  thee  as  she  past ; 
Dead  —  how,  it  matters  not: 
Corrupting,  earth  to  earth. 

And  not  a  league  from  where  it  lies 
Lie  bodies  once  as  free  from  stain, 
And  hearts  as  gay  as  this  sea-bird's, 
Whom  all  the  preachers'  words 
Will  ne'er  make  white   again, 
Or  from  the  dead  to  rise. 

Rot,  pretty  bird,  in  harmless  clay :  — 
We  sing  too  much  poetic  woes  ; 
Let  us  be  doing  while  we  can : 
Blessed  the  Christian  man 
Who  on  life's  shore  seeks  those 
Dying  of  soul  decay. 


LOOKING  EAST 

In  January,  1858. 

LITTLE  white  clouds,  why  are  you  flying 

Over  the  sky  so  blue  and  cold? 
Fair  faint  hopes,  why  are  you  lying 

Over  my  heart  like  a  white  cloud's  fold? 

Slender  green  leaves,  why  are  you  peeping 
Out  of  the  ground  where  the  snow  yet  lies  ? 

Toying  west  wind,  why  are  you  creeping 
Like  a  child's  breath  across  my  eyes  ? 

Hope  and  terror  by  turns  consuming, 
Lover  and  friend  put  far  from  me,  — 

What  should  I  do  with  the  bright  spring,  coining 
Like  an  angel  over  the  sea  ? 

Over  the  cruel  sea  that  parted 

Me  from  mine  own,  and  rolls  between  ;  — 


LOOKING   EAST.  239 

Out  of  the  woful  east,  whence  darted 
Heaven's  full  quiver  of  vengeance  keen. 

Day  teaches  day,  night  whispers  morning  — 
"  Hundreds  are  weeping  their  dead,  while  thou 

Weeping  thy  living  —  Rise,  be  adorning 

Thy  brows,  unwidow'd,  with  smiles."  —  But  how  ? 

Oh,  had  he  married  me !  —  unto  anguish 

Hardship,  sickness,  peril,  and  pain  ; 
That  on  my  breast  his  head  might  languish 

In  lonely  jungle  or  scorching  plain  ; 

Oh,  had  we  stood  on  some  rampart  gory, 
Till  he  —  ere  Horror  behind  us  trod  — 

Kiss'd  me,  and  kill'd  me  —  so,  with  his  glory 
My  soul  went  happy  and  pure  to  God  ! 

Nay,  nay,  heaven  pardon  me  !    me,  sick-hearted. 
Living  this  long,  long  life-in-death : 

Many  there  are  far  wider  parted 

Who  under  one  roof-tree  breathe  one  breath. 

But  we  that  loved  —  whom  one  word  half-broken 
Had  drawn  together  close  soul  to  soul 

As  lip  to  lip  —  and  it  was  not  spoken, 
Nor  may  be  while  the  world's  ages  roll. 


240  LOOKING  EAST. 

I  sit  me  down  with  my  tears  all  frozen : 
I  drink  my  cup,  be  it  gall  or  wine : 

For  I  know,  if  he  lives,  I  am  his  chosen  — 
I  know,  if  he  dies,  that  he  is  mine. 

If  love  in  its  silence  be  greater,  stronger 
Than  million  promises,  sighs,  or  tears  — 

I  will  wait  upon  Him  a  little  longer 
Who  holdeth  the  balance  of  our  years. 

Little  white  clouds  like  angels  flying, 

Bring  the  spring  with  you  across  the  sea- 

Loving  or  losing,  living  or  dying, 
Lord,  remember,  remember  me ! 


OVER  THE   HILLS   AND   FAR   AWAY. 

A  LITTLE  bird  flew  my  window  by, 
Twixt  the  level  street  and  the  level  sky, 
The  level  rows  of  houses  tall, 
The  long  low  sun  on  the  level  wall ; 
And  all  that  the  little  bird  did  say 
Was  "Over  the  hills  and  far  away." 

A  little  bird  sang  behind  my  chair, 
From  the  level  line  of  corn-fields  fair, 
The  smooth  green  hedgerow's  level  bound 
Not  a  furlong  off — the  horizon's  bound, 
And  the  level  lawn  where  the  sun  all  day 
Burns  :  —  "  Over  the  hills  and  far  away." 

A  little  bird  sings  above  my  bed, 

And  I  know  if  I  could  but  lift  my  head 

I  would  see  the  sun  set,  round  and  grand, 

Upon  level  sea  and  level  sand, 

While  beyond  the  misty  distance  grey     . 

Is  "Over  the  hills  and  far  away." 

16 


242  OVER   THE  HILLS   AND   FAR   AWAY. 

I  think  that  a  little  bird  will  sing 

Over  a  grassy  mound,  next  spring. 

Where  something  that  once  was  me,  ye  '11  leave 

In  the  level  sunshine,  morn  and  eve : 

But  I  shall  be  gone,  past  night,  past  day, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 


TOO  LATE. 

"  Douglas,  Douglas,  tendir  and  treu." 

COULD  ye  come  back  to   me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 

In  the  old  likeness  that  I  knew, 
I  would  be  so  faithful,  so  loving,  Douglas, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Never  a  scornful  word  should  grieve  ye, 
I  'd  smile  on  ye  sweet  as  the  angels  do ;  — 

Sweet  as  your  smile  on  me  shone  ever, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

0  to  call  back  the  days  that  are  not! 

My  eyes  were  blinded,  your  words  were  few 
Do  you  know  the  truth  now  up  in  heaven, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true  ? 

1  never  was   worthy  of  you,   Douglas  ; 
Not  half  worthy  the  like  of  you  : 

Now  all  men  beside  seem  to  me  like  shadows  - 
I  love  you,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


244  TOO   LATE. 

Stretch  out  your  hand  to  me,  Douglas,   Douglas, 
Drop  forgiveness  from  heaven  like  dew  ; 

As  I  lay  my  heart  on  your  dead  heart,   Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


LOST  IN  THE  MIST. 

THE  thin   white  snow-streaks  pencilling 

That  mountain's  shoulder   grey, 
While  in  the  west  the  pale  green  sky 

Smiled  back  the  dawning  day, 
Till   from  the  misty  east  the  sun 

Was  of  a  sudden  born 
Like  a  new   soul  in  Paradise  — 

How  long  it  seems  since  morn ! 

One  little  hour,   O  round  red  sun, 

And  thou   and  I  shall  come 
Unto  the  golden  gate  of  rest, 

The  open   door  of  home : 
One  little  hour,  O  weary  sun, 

Delay  the  threaten'd  eve 
Till  my  tired  feet  that  pleasant  door 

Enter  and  never  leave. 

Ye  rooks  that  fly  in  slender  file 
Into  the  thick'ning  gloom, 


246  LOST   IN  THE   MIST. 

Ye  '11  scarce  have  reach'd  your  grim  grey   tower 

Ere   I  have   reach'd  ray   home ; 
Plover,  that  thrills  the  solitude 

With  such  an  eerie  cry, 
Seek  you  your  nest  ere  night-fall  comes, 

As   my  heart's  nest  seek  I. 

0  light,  light  heart  and  heavy  feet, 

Patience  a  little  while  ! 
Keep  the  warm  love-light  in  these  eyes, 

And  on  these  lips  the  smile  : 
Out-speed  the  mist,  the  gathering  mist 

That  follows  o'er  the  moor !  — 
The  darker  grows  the   world  without 

The  brighter  seems   that  door. 

0  door,   so  close  yet  so  far  off; 

O  mist  that  nears   and  nears ! 
What,  shall  I  faint  in   sight  of  home  ? 

Blinded  —  but  not  with  tears  — 
'T  is  but  the  mist,  the  cruel  mist, 

Which   chills  this  heart  of  mine: 
These   eyes,  too  weak  to  see  that  light  — 

It  has  not  ceased  to  shine. 

A  little  further,   further  yet : 

The   white  mist  crawls   and  crawls  ; 


LOST  IN  THE  MIST.  247 

It  hems  me  round,  it  shuts   me  in 

Its  great  sepulchral   walls : 
No  earth  —  no  sky  —  no  path  —  no  light  — 

A   silence  like  the  tomb  : 
Oh  me,  it  is  too  soon  to  die  — 

And  I  was  going  home  ! 

A  little  further,  further  yet: 

My  limbs  are  young,  —  my  heart  — 
0  heart,  it  is  not  only  life 

That  feels  it  hard  to  part: 
Poor  lips,  slow  freezing  into  calm. 

Numb'd  hands  that  helpless  fall, 
And,  a  mile  off,  warm  lips,  fond  hands, 

Waiting  to  welcome  all ! 

I  see  the  pictures  in  the  room, 

The  figures  moving  round, 
The  very  flicker  of  the  fire 

Upon  the  pattern'd  ground  : 
O  that  I  were  the  shepherd-dog 

That  guards  their  happy  door  ! 
Or  even  the  silly  household  cat 

That  basks  upon  the  floor! 

0  that  I  sat  one  minute's  space 
Where  I  have  sat  so  long  ! 


248  LOST   IN  THE   MIST. 

0  that  I  heard  one  little  word 

Sweeter  than  angel's  song ! 
A  pause  —  and  then  the  table  fills, 

The  harmless  mirth  brims  o'er; 
While  I  — oh  can  it  be  God's  will?  — 

I  die,  outside  the  door. 

My  body  fails  —  my  desperate  soul 

Struggles  before  it  go  : 
The  bleak  air  's  full  of  voices  wild, 

But  not  the  voice  I  know; 
Dim  shapes  come  wandering  through  the  dark  : 

With  mocking,  curious  stares 
Faces  long  strange  peer  glimmering  by  — 

But  not  one  face  of  theirs. 

Lost,  lost,  and  such  a  little  way 

From  that  dear  sheltering  door 
Lost,  lost,  out  of  the  loving  arms 

Left  empty  evermore  ! 
His  will  be  done.     O,  gate  of  heaven, 

Fairer  than  earthly  door, 
Receive  me  !  Everlasting  arms, 

Enfold  me  evermore  ! 

And   so,  farewell         ******** 

What  is  this  touch 


LOST   IN   THE   MIST.  249 

Upon  my  closing  eyes  ? 
My  name  too,  that  I  thought  to  hear 

Next  time  in  Paradise  ? 
Warm  arms  —  close  lips  —  Oh  saved,  saved,  saved  ! 

Across  the  deathly  moor 
Sought,  found  —  and  yonder  through  the  night 

Shineth  the  blessed  door. 


SEMPER  FIDELIS. 

"Mine  own  familiar  friend,  in  whom  I  trusted.'1 

THINK  you,  had  we  two  lost  fealty,  something  would 
not,  as  I  sit 

With  this  book  upon  my  lap  here,  come  and  over 
shadow  it  ? 

Hide  with  spectral  mists  the  pages,  under  each  familiar 
leaf 

Lurk,  and  clutch  my  hand  that  turns  it  with  the  icy- 
clutch  of  grief?* 

Think  you,  were   we   twain   divided,  not  by  distance. 

time,  or  aught 
That  the  world  calls  separation,  but  we  smile  at.  better 

taught, 
That    I    should    not    feel    the    dropping   of  each    link 

you  did  untwine 
Clear  as    if  you    sat    before  me  with  your    true    eyes 

fixed  oji  mine? 


SEMPER   FIDELIS.  251 

That    I    should    not,    did    you    crumble    as    the    other 

false  friends  do 
To   the   dust   of  broken   idols,    know  it  without   sight 

of  you, 
By  some  shadow  darkening  daylight  in  the  fickle  skies 

of  spring, 
By  foul   fears  from   household    corners   crawling  over 

everything  ? 

If  that   awful   gulf  were   opening   which    makes  two, 

however  near, 
Parted  more  than  we  were  parted,  dwelt  we  in  each 

hemisphere,  — 
Could   I   sit   here,  smiling   quiet  on  this   book  within 

my  hand, 
And   while    earth   was   cloven    beneath   me,   feel    no 

shock  nor  understand  ? 

No,    you    cannot,    could     not     alter.     No,    rny    faith 

builds  safe  on  yours, 
Rock-like ;    though    the    winds    and   waves    howl,  its 

foundation  still  endures  : 
By    a   man's    will  — "  See,    I   hold    thee :    mine    thou 

art,  and  mine  shalt  be." 
By  a  woman's  patience  —  "  Sooner   doubt    I  my  own 

soul  than  thee." 


252  SEMPER  FIDELIS. 

So,    Heaven    mend   us !     we  '11    together    once   again 

take  counsel  sweet; 
Though    this    hand  of  mine    drops  empty,  that    blank 

wall  my  blank  eyes  meet : 
Life  may  flow  on  :    men   be    faithless,  —  ay   forsooth 

and  women  too  ! 
ONE  is  true ;   and   as    He  liveth,    I   believe    in   truth 

—  and  you. 


ONE   SUMMER  MORNING. 

IT  is  but  a  little  while  ago  : 

The  elm-leaves  have  scarcely  begun  to  drop  away ; 
The  sunbeams  strike    the    elm-trunk  just  where    they 
struck  that  day  — 

Yet  all  seems  to  have  happen'd  long  ago. 

And  the  year  rolleth  round,  slow,  slow  : 
Autumn    will    fade    to    winter    and    winter    melt    in 

spring, 
New  life  return  again  to  every  living  thing. 

Soon,  this  will  have  happen'd  long  ago. 

The  bonnie  wee  flowers  will  blow ; 
The   trees    will   re-clothe   themselves,   the    birds    sing 

out  amain, — 
But  never,  never,  never  will  the  world  look  again 

As  it  look'd  before  this  happen'd  —  long  ago  ! 


MY  LOVE   ANNIE. 

SOFT  of  voice  and  light  of  hand 
As  the  fairest  in  the  land  — 
Who  can  rightly  understand 
My  love  Annie  ? 

Simple  in  her  thoughts  and  ways, 
True  in  every  word  she  says,  — 
Who  shall  even  dare  to  praise 
My  love  Annie  ? 

Midst  a  naughty  world  and  rude 
Never  in  ungentle  mood; 
Never  tired  of  being  good  — 
My  love  Annie. 

Hundreds  of  the  wise  and  great 
Might  o'erlook  her  meek  estate  ; 
But  on  her  good  angels  wait, 
My  love  Annie. 


MY   LOVE   ANNIE.  255 

Many  or  few  the  loves  that  may 
Shine  upon  her  silent  way,  — 
God  will  love  her  night  and  day, 
My  love  Annie. 


SUMMER   GONE. 

SMALL  wren,  mute  pecking  at  the  last  red  plum 
Or  twittering  idly  at  the  yellowing  boughs 
Fruit-emptied,  over  thy  forsaken  house, — 

Birdie,  that  seems  to  come 

Telling,  we  too  have  spent  our  little  store, 

Our  summer  's  o'er  : 

Poor  robin,  driven  in  by  rain-storms  wild 

To  lie  submissive  under  household  hands 
With  beating  heart  that  no  love  understands, 

And  scared  eye,  like  a  child 

Who  only  knows  that  he  is  all  alone 

And  summer  's  gone  ; 

Pale  leaves,  sent  flying  wide,  a  frighten'd  flock 

On  which  the  wolfish  wind  bursts  out,  and  tear? 
Those  tender  forms  that  lived  in  summer  airs 

Till,  taken  at  this  shock, 

They,  like  weak  hearts  when  sudden  grief  sweeps  by. 

Whirl,  drop,  and  die  :  — 


,  SUMMER   GONE.  257 

All  these  things,  earthy,  of  the  earth  —  do  tell 
This  earth's  perpetual  story ;  we  belong 
Unto  another  country,  and  our  song 

Shall  be  no  mortal  knell ; 

Though  all  the  year's  tale,  as  our  years  run  fast 

Mourns,  "  summer 's  past." 

O  love  immortal,  O  perpetual  youth, 

Whether  in  budding  nooks  it  sits  and  sings 
As  hundred  poets  in  a  hundred  springs, 

Or  slaking  passion's  drouth 

In  wine-press  of  affliction,  ever  goes 

Heavenward,  through  woes : 

0  youth  immortal  —  0  undying  love  \ 

With  these  by  winter  fireside  we'll  sit  down 
Wearing  our  snows  of  honour  like  a  crown ; 

And  sing  as  in  a  grove, 

Where  the  full  nests  ring  out  with  happy  cheer, 

"  Summer  is  here." 

Roll  round,  strange  years ;  swift  seasons,  come  and  go  : 
Ye  leave  upon  us  but  an  outward  sign ; 
Ye  cannot  touch  the  inward  and  divine, 

While  God  alone  does  know ; 

There  seal'd  till  summers,  winters,  all  shall  cease 

In  His  deep  peace. 

17 


258  SUMMER   GONE. 

Therefore  uprouse  ye  winds  and  howl  your  will ; 

Beat,  beat,  ye  sobbing  rains   on  pane  and   door ; 

Enter,  slow-footed  age,  and  thou,  obscure 
Grand  Angel  —  not  of  ill ; 
Healer  of  every  wound,  where'er  thou  come 
Glad,  we  '11  go  home. 


THE   VOICE   CALLING. 

IN  the  hush  of  April  weather, 
With  the  bees  in  budding  heather, 
And  the  white  -clouds  floating,  floating,  and   the    sun 
shine  falling  broad  : 
While  my  children  down  the  hill 
Run  and  leap,  and  I  sit  still,  — 
Through    the   silence,   through    the    silence    art   Thou 
calling,  O  my  God  ? 

Through  my  husband's  voice  that  prayeth, 
Though  he  knows  not  what  he  sayeth, 
Is    it    Thou    who   in    Thy   holy   Word    hast    solemn 

words  for  me  ? 

And  when  he  clasps  me  fast, 
And  smiles  fondly  o'er  the  past, 

And   talks,  hopeful,  of  the  future  —  Lord,  do    I  hear 
only  Thee  ? 

Not  in  terror  nor  in  thunder 

Conies  Thy  voice,  although  it  sunder 


260  THE   VOICE    CALLING. 

Flesh  from  spirit,  soul  from  body,  human   bliss  from 

human  pain  :  . 

All  the  work  that  was  to  do, 
All  the  joys  so  sweet  and  new 

Which   Thou    shewed'st   me   in  a  vision  —  Moses-like 
—  and  hid'st  again. 

From  this  Pisgah,  lying  humbled, 
The  long  desert  where  I  stumbled 
And  the  fair  plains  I  shall  never  reach,  seem    equal, 

clear  and  far  : 

On  this  mountain-top  of  ease 
Thou  wilt  bury  me  in  peace  ; 

While  my  tribes  march  onward,  onward,  unto  Canaan 
and  war. 

In  my  boy's  loud  laughter  ringing, 
In  the  sigh  more  soft  than  singing 
Of  my    baby    girl    that    nestles    up    unto   this    mortal 

breast, 

After  every  voice  most  dear 
Comes  a  whisper  —  "  Rest  not  here." 
And   the   rest   Thou    art   preparing,  is  it   best,  Lord, 
is  it  best? 

"  Lord,  a  little,  little  longer  !  " 

Sobs  the  earth-love,  growing  stronger : 


THE   VOICE   CALLING.  261 

He  will  miss  me,  and    go  mourning  through   his  soli 
tary  days. 

And  heaven  were  scarcely  heaven 
If  these  lambs  which  Thou  hast  given 
Were  to  slip  out  of  our  keeping   and   be  lost  in  the 
world's  ways. 

Lord,  it  is  not  fear  of  dying 
Nor  an  impious  denying 
Of  Thy  will,  which  for  evermore  on  earth,  in  heaven, 

be  done : 

But  the  love  that  desperate  clings 
Unto  these  my  precious  things 

Jn  the   beauty  of  the  daylight,  and   the  glory  of  the 
sun. 

Ah,  Thou  still  art  calling,  calling, 
With  a  soft  voice  unappalling ; 
And  it  vibrates  in  far  circles  through  the  everlasting 

years  ; 

When  Thou  knockest,  even  so ! 
I  will  arise  and  go.  — 

What,   my  little   ones,   more  violets  ?  — Nay,  be    pa 
tient  —  mother  hears. 


THE   WREN'S  NEST. 

I  TOOK  the  wren's  nest;  — 

Heaven  forgive  me  ! 
Its  merry  architects  so  small 
Had  scarcely  finish'd  their  wee  hall, 
That  empty  still  and  neat  and  fair 
Hung  idly  in  the  summer  air. 
The  mossy  walls,  the  dainty  door, 
Where  Love  should  enter  and  explore, 
And  Love  sit  carolling  outside, 
And  Love  within  chirp  multiplied  ;  — 

I  took  the  wren's  nest  ;  — 

Heaven  forgive  me  ! 

How  many  hours  of  happy  pains 
Through  early  frosts  and  April  rains, 
How  many  songs  at  eve  and  morn 
O'er  springing  grass  and  greening  corn, 
What  labours  hard  through  sun  and  shade 
Before   the  pretty  house  was  made ! 


THE   WREN'S    NEST.  263 

One  little  minute,  only  one, 

And  she  '11  fly  back,   and  find  it  —  gone ! 

I  took  the  wren's   nest: 

Bird,  forgive  me ! 

Thou  and  thy  mate,  sans  let,  sans  fear, 
Ye  have  before  you  all  the  year, 
And  every  wood   holds'  nooks  for  you, 
In  which  to  sing  and  build   and  woo; 
One  piteous  cry  of  birdish  pain  — 
And  ye  '11  begin  your  life   again, 
And  quite  forget  the  lost,   lost  home 
In   many  a  busy   home  to  come.  — 
But  i  ?  —  Your  wee  house   keep  I   must 
Until  it  crumble  into  dust. 

I  took  the  wren's  nest : 

God  forgive  me ! 


A   CHRISTMAS    CAROL. 

TUNE —  "  God  rest  ye,  merry  gentlemen." 

GOD  rest  ye,  merry  gentlemen  ;  let  nothing  you  dis 
may, 

For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was  born  on  Christ 
mas-day. 

The  dawn  rose  red  o'er  Bethlehem,  the  stars  shone 
through  the  grey, 

When  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was  born  on  Christ 
mas-day. 

God  rest  ye,  little  children  ;  let  nothing  you  af 
fright, 

For  Jesus  Christ,  your  Saviour,  was  born  this  hap 
py  night; 

Along  the  hills  of  Galilee  the  white  flocks  sleeping 
lay, 

When  Christ,  the  Child  of  Nazareth,  was  born  on 
Christmas-day. 


A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL  265 

God  rest  ye,  all  good  Christians  ;  upon  this  blessed 
morn 

The  Lord  of  all  good  Christians  was  of  a  woman 
born  : 

Now  all  your  sorrows  He  doth  heal,  your  sins  He 
takes  away ; 

For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was  born  on  Christ 
mas-day. 


THE  MOTHER'S  VISITS. 

From  the  French. 

LONG  years  ago  she  visited  my  chamber, 
Steps  soft  and  slow,  a  taper  in  her  hand  ; 

Her  fond  kiss  she  laid  upon  my  eyelids, 
Fair  as  an  angel  from  the  unknown  land : 

Mother,  mother,  is  it  thou  I  see  ? 

Mother,  mother,  watching  over  me. 

And  yesternight  I  saw  her  cross  my  chamber, 
Soundless  as  light,  a  palm-branch  in  her  hand 

Her  mild  eyes  she  bent  upon  my  anguish. 
Calm  as  an  angel  from  the  blessed  land  ; 

Mother,  mother,  is  it  thou  I  see? 

Mother,  mother,  art  thou  come  for  me  ? 


A  GERMAN  STUDENT'S  FUNERAL  HYMN. 

"Thou  shalt  call,  and  I  will  answer  Thee:   Thou  wilt  have  a  desire  to 
the  work  of  Thine  hands." 

WITH  steady  march  across  the  daisy  meadow. 

And  by  the  churchyard  wall  we  go  ; 
But  leave  behind,  beneath  the  linden  shadow, 

One,  who  no  more  will  rise  and  go  : 
Farewell,  our  brother,  here  sleeping  in  dust, 
Till  thou  shalt  wake  again,  wake  with  the  just. 

Along  the  street  where  neighbour  nods  to  neighbour. 

Along  the  busy  street  we  throng, 
Once  more  to  laugh,  to  live  and  love  and  labour,  — 

But  he  will  be  remember'd  long : 
Sleep  well,  our  brother,  though  sleeping  in  dust: 
Shalt  thou  not  rise  again  —  rise  with  the  just  ? 

Farewell,  true  heart  and  kindly  hand,  left  lying 
Where  wave  the  linden  branches  calm ; 


268   A  GERMAN  STUDENT'S  FUNERAL  HYMN. 

'T  is  his  to  live,  and  ours  to  wait  for  dying, 

We  win,  while  he  has  won,  the  palm  ; 
Farewell,  our  brother!     But  one  day,  we  trust, 
Call  —  he  will  answer  Thee,  God  of  the  just. 


WESTWARD  HO! 

WE  should  not  sit  us  down  and  sigh, 
My  girl,  whose  brow  a  fane  appears, 

Whose  stedfast  eyes  look  royally 

Backwards  and  forwards  o'er  the  years  — 

The  long  long  years  of  conquer'd  time, 
The  possible  years  unwon,  that  slope 

Before  us  in  the  pale  sublime 

Of  lives  that  have  more  faith  than  hope. 

We  dare  not  sit  us  down  and  dream 
Fond  dreams,  as  idle  children  do: 

My  forehead  owns  too  many  a  seam, 

And  tears  have  worn  their  channels  through 

Your  poor  thin  cheeks,  which  now  I  take 
'Twixt  my  two  hands,  caressing.     Dear, 

A  little  sunshine  for  my  sake  ! 

Although  we  're  far  on  in  the  year. 


270  WESTWARD   HO! 

Though  all  our  violets,  sweet !  are  dead, 
The  primrose  lost  from  fields  we  knew, 

Who  knows  what  harvests  may  be  spread 
For  reapers  brave  like  me  and  you? 

Who  knows  what  bright  October  suns 
May  light  up  distant  valleys  mild, 

Where  as  our  pathway  downward  runs 
We  see  Joy  meet  us,  like  a  child 

Who,  sudden,  by  the  roadside  stands, 
To  kiss  the  travellers'  weary  brows, 

And  lead  them  through  the  twilight  lands 
Safely  unto  their   Father's  house. 

So,  we  '11  not  dream,  nor  look  back,  dear ! 

But  march  right  on,  content  and  bold, 
To  where  our  life  sets,  heavenly  clear, 

Westward,  behind  the  hills  of  gold. 


THE    END. 


INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 


BOOK  ON  THE 


OVERDUE. 


THE  FOURTH 
SEVENTH 


LD21-100m-7,'40  (6936s) 


m  f37U 


^ERALUBRARY-U.C.  BERKELEY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


